HetaOni: Recovery
by Sunruner
Summary: Sequel to Final Loop. They made a promise to help each other escape from that terrible place, but what do those promises mean now that they're really free? What are friendship, love and brotherhood in the wake of so much pain? If every loop really happened and everything that happened was really real, then how can a corrupt world even try to move on? Chapter 40/40.
1. A Swiss September

**Soft Hetaoni tracks, Princess of China, Safe and Sound, This is Where I Fall.**

**The following story is a continuation project working from my other story HetaOni: Final Loop. Like any fanfiction, this story is entirely headcanon and may not appeal to all readers due to characterization and pacing. Although it has its moments, this is not a fast story. The first eleven chapters move at a stately pace, the twelve to seventeen range has been described as emotionally difficult, there is a weak point in the early twenties before it picks up the pace again and transitions into the closing act in the early thirties.**

**Every time I edit this AN I either sound like a ditz or an ass so bleeeeeh, please enjoy my fic!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

A Swiss September

The first thing France did after landing in a civilian air-field in Switzerland was run across the tarmac. He didn't even bother to remove his helmet where it was crushing his blonde head, he just pulled the goggles off and let the cool wind blow across his face. He ran straight to the grey body of the Italian AMX jet that had safely come down a few minutes before him, leaving his own stressed aircraft to cough and smoke where he'd taxied it to a stop.

The human pilot up inside the other machine seemed too stunned by what had happened during their mission to so much as unbuckle himself from his seat. The Italian plane, like the French one the Air Commandant had just abandoned, was still whining and screaming softly from its fried electronics and over-clocked engines. The entire thing stank of burning rubber and spent fuel, rivets coming loose where the metal had begun to corrode like it had been in the grey sky for years, not hours.

France didn't have a care for the personnel milling about under the cloudy sky, the humans all wondering where two military jets had come from. He just hoisted himself right up the side of the plane, careful not to hurt himself as the cockpit hatch was released and the human inside fumbled awkwardly to remove the mask and goggles still hiding his face. He looked understandably shaken and upset, no doubt confused as well, but the nation didn't say anything.

He didn't even bother to get a good look at his face either, France just grabbed the other pilot by his jump suit and covered his mouth with his lips. He paid absolutely no mind to the loud grunt in protest that the other man made, and he was still strapped into his seat so he had no way of squirming out of reach either! It was a shame he wasn't wearing some kind of cologne or fragrant aftershave, France was so used to thinking of Italy's people as-

-oh.

Soldier.

Right.

"_That-_" France said breathlessly, his gloved fingers working their way around the pilot's throat until he found the chain he was looking for. Unfortunately, his companion also had a grip at _his_ throat now, and it was clearly poised to launch France the half-dozen or so feet from the cockpit edge to the hard tarmac below. The Italian was _not_ amused. "-was the most _beautiful_ thing I have seen in years."

"What?" With a jerk of his wrist the nation liberated the soldier of his dog tags, the Italian's face a mixture of confusion and- well, really just a terrible amount of confusion.

"You will be hearing from me, _mon cher!_" And before he could be shoved off the plane, France quickly climbed back down the way he'd come, the pilot letting go of him as he started fighting and fumbling to get himself free of the jet's belts and wires.

"Wait!" Ohonhonhon~ no one could resist the French- "What the hell are y-? Your plane!"

"My people will be along to take care of it!" France laughed, calling the words over his shoulder as he twirled the broken chain around his fingers, making sure he kept the tags themselves safe against his palm. "Switzerland will have to answer for it if anything happens!" Even in its current condition, was it good husbandry to simply abandon his plane on a civilian air-field in the middle of Switzerland? No, no it wasn't. But France had a few more important things on his mind right now, and one of those was-

"You there! I need directions to the nearest train station! Or access to a spare plane, if you have one!"

* * *

It was over.

That was all Russia could think of as he stood there, sweaty, bleeding, and dirty:

It was over.

The rubble was still smouldering and there were Swiss forces combing across the property. They were burning down every inch of green and making sure the flames didn't climb out of control across the landscape. The September sun was setting over the Alps in the west, fingers of red light probing the smoking ground scornfully before vanishing. The air was cool and quiet, filled only with the hissing flames as they were doused, the faded sounds of voices fluttering through the smoke...

Sometimes the soldiers found clocks in the bushes and debris. There were plastic wall clocks, wooden grandmothers, old-fashioned alarms, ornate pocket-watches, digital time-pieces, and all sorts of other kinds- even dead VCRs and microwaves. Like well-trained machines the men and women wearing the Swiss badge on their arms smashed those devices to bits and burnt them along with the twisted trees and wild weeds. They were the only things in the rubble that mattered, and it wasn't the soldiers' place to question their orders. None of the nations even cared that the clocks had all stopped, or frozen, or turned off already. They just wanted them gone and Switzerland was all too happy to oblige.

Speaking of whom...

Russia turned away from the shambled remains of the house, leaving Spain to stand there alone and stare at the destruction. He moved carefully up the beaten path and avoided the debris strewn by the explosive aftermath of the air-strike, following a particular set of voices up the hill. He didn't wander all the way back to the road where personnel were gathered and coordinating the clean-up effort, but with his pipe-sword swinging next to him, the tall northerner soon found himself standing on the edge of the small cluster of Germanic nations. Germany was speaking as he got there:

"Just who was Holy Rome?"

"My big brother. At least, until I got bigger than him." Prussia's face was unnaturally dark, clearly upset over something. The East German was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, Austria kneeling at his feet on the ground next to the medical cot holding Switzerland's badly wounded body. Germany was standing as well, keeping out of the way of the Swiss surgeon trying to tend to his nation's wounds.

"He was my brother too." The fact that Switzerland was still awake either meant he was coping all right with the pain of having his leg blown off, or he was just too stubborn to let the surgeon knock him out. "He died in the nineteenth century. France's emperor at the time- the first Napoleon?" The Alpine Republic was pale and obviously not doing well, his voice not coming out clearly while his green eyes stared blearily up at Germany. He didn't even seem to notice Russia's presence as the taller nation approached and looked down on him, he was too exhausted to pay attention. When Russia looked back at Germany he was surprised to see the shocked expression on the Federal Republic's face. His next question was more of a statement.

"But _I_ was found-"

"After the war..." Austria sounded calm, as usual, but Russia couldn't help but notice how the proud aristocrat wouldn't look up at Germany as he spoke. "France was the one to find you and he sent you to Vienna when we were dividing up his lost territories. You told us your name and..." And the rest was history? Russia remembered that conference in Vienna, it had been very interesting: the first real 'world meeting' of sorts...

"And he looked-"

"A lot like you." Switzerland's voice was ragged now that he was slowly giving in to the pain medications feeding into his arm. His leg wouldn't come back until he'd rested, the bloody bandages wrapped around the stump of his right thigh would struggle to contain the damage in the meantime. Most of the blonde hair had been burnt off the side of his skull too, disfiguring his eye and cheek... yes, he looked quite terrible.

"And you say he acted-"

"A lot like you, West." Prussia lost eye-contact with his little brother, just watching Switzerland begin to drift off into a deep, dark sleep.

"And... his relationship with Italy...?"

"A lot like... well, I suppose that depends." Austria finally looked up, his violet eyes catching sight of Russia for a moment before focusing back on Germany. That was alright, Russia was just listening anyways. He wanted to hear the rest even if Austria looked uncomfortable trying to word it. "What... _is_ your relationship with Italy?"

"I..." After everything that just happened, was that really a fair question?

"Perhaps this can wait?" Russia suggested, earning him a startled look from Germany before the blonde calmed himself and listened. The others didn't take much coaxing either. "Why don't we finish up here and go home? We can talk about dead empires some other time, after we have all eaten at our own tables and slept in our own beds. I'm sure that's all Italy wants for himself right now, so that should be good enough for us."

To be fair, there was no way of knowing what Italy could have wanted, no way to really guess or understand. They didn't even know what had motivated Romano to begin all of this in the first place: how had he found out that his brother was still alive? How had he figured out so much about the house? Russia had been the first to know that South Italy was preparing an assault on the mansion and yet even he hadn't had a chance to worm any additional information out of the elder Italian.

But at least Switzerland had known what was good for him, because the neutral power was the one that had called the rest of the world here in such a hurry. He had requested, in a voice that could never be mistaken for begging or pleading, for the Security Council to send military aid for a crisis taking place in the Alps. The official statement had been very vague; anarchists, rouge militants hiding out at an abandoned property in the wilderness, something about a kidnapping and torture and Italy's overzealous pledge to aid them...

All lies, but all necessary to keep the public satisfied. Swiss pride had been injured in all of this, but then again the craters peppering the landscape said the same of Italian and American... And Chinese, and Polish, and Lithuanian and Korean too no doubt... Who else had died? Not died for real, not stepped beyond the mortal veil into the next world, but had their bodies damaged to the point where they couldn't function anymore.

Russia was fairly certain England was still alive, admittedly a bit more tense when he thought about him and China versus the other nations. It was hard not to doubt the Englishman's ability to bounce back, and the same could be said about Canada's brother... France had probably landed by now, or at least Russia hoped he had.

Thinking back to the final moments before the second crash, Russia wasn't exactly sure what had happened between America and England. All he knew was that when Russia and Canada had reached the site of America's crash they'd found the other nation unconscious on the ground instead of burnt to cinders inside the blackened shell of his jet. He was... beyond simply lucky to have survived. He'd crashed inside the monster's area of influence, he'd been rendered human again for however short a time and the impact ought to have ended his life again just like in all of those other loops.

It still remained to be seen what would happen when he woke up; if any lasting damage had been done or if he truly was just fine despite the impact... But for now...

For now as Prussia and Austria hoisted Switzerland's cot up between them and began to trudge up the hill, Russia cleared his throat to catch Germany's attention. It felt below him to _ask_ for attention, especially if what he was about to say was for Germany's benefit alone, but he did have something worth saying even if he wasn't going to gain from it.

"I never knew the Holy Roman Empire, not personally." He stated, watching the other nation stare uncertainly at him. Germany looked exhausted with sweat and filth smearing his face, his uniform dirty and blotched with dirt and blood. His blue eyes had a pathetic-looking emotion in them, something like frustration giving way to hopelessness, but Russia was trying not to poke at him right now, not after everything. "But when you get home, try contacting Poland or Lithuania. They used to share a border with him in the south and west, so they might remember something." And Poland would want to talk, especially if it was to one of the twelve. He would want to talk and help and enlighten and do anything, because for the first time in several years something had actually made the little imbecile mad. He'd been blasted off the field by the same explosion that had taken out China, Korea and Lithuania, meaning he'd been made useless in the campaign to rescue his Italian friend.

Russia had turned his radio off already. Being yelled at by Poland would only upset his temper right now and the larger nation had no wish to get riled up. He didn't want to be angry, or sad, or distressed, he just wanted everything to calm down now that they'd taken out some of their aggression on the Thing that had caused all of their problems. It wasn't enough, it would never feel like enough but Russia understood, for now at least, that there was no helping it. He didn't want the monster to come back so they could kill it again, he just wished he could have made it suffer a bit more before the air-strike obliterated that giant clock that had been hiding in the mansion...

But it was better not to think about that clock right now either. Russia didn't want to be reminded of all the times he'd seen it before, all the times he'd wanted to study it, not destroy it. If he had only _known_...

_'Stop. Stop. I don't want to think like that today.'_ Not today, not tomorrow or the day after or the day after that. He didn't want to think like that... He didn't want to count how many times he _could_ have broken the chain, but hadn't... _'I said stop!_'

Ahh... His mind wasn't such a safe place anymore, was it?

"Ah, thank you, Russia. I... I'll do that." What? Do what? Oh.

Russia had already forgotten the conversation, but to be fair Germany had taken a very, very long time to answer him. The taller nation just gave a little smile as the German nodded and turned his dazed blue eyes towards the top of the hill, taking a few more moments to gather himself before he started walking. He would be heading back to Berlin with his brother now that this was over, at least until they heard something from Italy about the nation's condition. Russia couldn't say for sure how long Germany would be willing to wait before checking in with the brothers, but hopefully he would not do anything rash in the meantime.

So, was it over? Russia watched Germany leave and then turned back towards the towering pile of rubble and debris. Shattered bricks, white cinder blocks, slabs of concrete and splintered wooden beams... There were pieces of broken furniture peppering the remains, twisted wires reaching out to grasp at the sky like mangled fingers...

It felt like it was over. At least this part did, this loop... What about all the others? What would have happened if they hadn't stopped the monster from turning back time? What if the beast hadn't really died and they'd been left here with only the illusion of victory?

Every loop was real and everything that happened had consequences- for those loops. How many failed loops existed beyond the ones in Italy's journal? How many other worlds existed now where the United States of America had ceased to exist? Or France? Or Russia himself? What about the worlds where none of them had lived?

What about the ones where eleven nations had died, but one Italian had escaped across time to another loop and rescued them? What did _those_ worlds look like?

Walking until he reached the edge of where it was safe to wander, at Russia's feet now was the door that had tormented them all more than any other. It was the great big steel monstrosity that had slammed shut behind them in every loop, the one that never opened no matter how hard they pounded or screamed or fought with it. There was a hole blown through it now, obscuring the glyph that had done as much to keep them trapped as the heavy bolts which had anchored it into the stone walls. There was no blood on the metal looking up at him: if there was ever any sign of the trauma painted on the blackened steel, it would be on the charred interior facing the ground, not the outward facade.

It was over. Germany and the others hadn't just stopped the monster from taking Italy; once the beast began to writhe in the wake of the mansion's destruction they had jumped on it like dogs. Russia had already vowed to get himself a new cane-sword: the one he was still holding was splattered with brackish green fluid from the monster's body and he wanted to keep it as a memento. Something to hang on his wall, a memory of the justice, small as it was, that had been dealt to their tormentor.

The Italian Brothers had left before the fighting was even over, but that had been the point of getting them up into the back of the first Swiss army vehicle that came roaring down the road towards their position. They had to go home. Romano had had to get his brother as far away from the mansion as possible and then get him home. South Italy had left for those obvious reasons, and Germany and Japan stayed behind for vengeful ones.

The monster's grey body had been beaten beyond the point of recognition, which was satisfying in its own way. It was a shame that so many of the original ten- or even the total twelve, hadn't been able to partake in the killing, but again each man had his own role to fulfill. England and America would understand, Italy and Romano probably wouldn't care, France was too far away and China... well, someone would find a way to console China.

The rest of them had gathered the items the monster had worn to torment Italy- the gold-edged hat, the black cape, the sharp knife. They'd waited until they were sure that the magic was gone and the monster's body too crippled and broken for it to put up any more of a fight, and then burnt the beast and the tokens together. It was a sweet victory. To stomp and spit on the ashes of a foe who had tormented them was rewarding, satisfying, a proper return for the pain, and the humiliation, and the hopelessness, and the futility, and the... all of the...

No. It... it really wasn't enough... Nothing would ever be enough, but this was all they'd been given. This little victory and their own lives were the only things they had. It was not enough, but it would have to be.

"He..." Russia glanced to his left, catching sight of Japan standing next to him, staring down at the mangled door at their feet. "He won..." The island nation was standing with one hand on his sword hilt, the other hanging straight at his side, a fist pressed against his thigh. "He won." Italy. "He won and you-"

Japan wasn't speaking to Russia, he understood this just by watching how fiercely the shorter nation was looking down at the warped metal. Japan had been as brutal as the rest of them when dealing with the last creature, the ring leader, but he had been completely silent while the rest of them made their opinion clear with both fists and words. Russia was calm now, but he had felt an anger so hot and cold inside of him that he almost hadn't known what to do with his hands to pay back the pain that had torn him apart. The agony had disturbed his stomach and filled his lungs with poisoned relief and toxic dread, and he'd wanted the creature to get a taste of that. Just a taste.

"And you- you just..." But Japan was very good at hiding things like that. It was probably only by virtue of everyone else drifting away to help purge the land and direct the soldiers that he was taking this moment now to speak, to let out the things boiling and bubbling under his calm shell. The tiny Empire was wavering slightly from side to side, feet spread just enough so he wouldn't lose his balance, and that was good. Russia didn't want to have to catch Japan if he fell, and he didn't want to watch the other nation kneel in front of this door.

"Italy won." Yes. Italy won. Out of all the countless loops, in this one he triumphed. He beat the odds, he escaped the monster, and he freed the rest of them. He gave them back their power and identity as nations. He gave them back their people and their culture and their histories. He gave them back their memories and bonded them in a way they would not forget. Italy had given them names and made those names more important than they had ever been before.

They'd helped him escape today, but he'd still engineered that all on his own, hadn't he? Romano had led the charge but someone must have given him the information, the warnings, the precautions... Without him today would never have happened. Italy-

"_ITALY WON!_" Ivan Braginski knew that Kiku Honda was a strong, proud Japanese man, and he knew that he did not let his emotions free without good reason. Kiku did not laugh loudly with his best friends or carry on with any extreme actions or behaviours, he usually wouldn't even give a straight answer to a direct question.

But now:

"YOU HURT US!" Now Kiku was screaming, and Ivan wasn't even bothered enough to look at him and wonder why. There was no asking why.

"YOU TRICKED US! YOU RUINED US-" Because if Kiku wasn't the one shouting, then it would have been Ivan. Because a day's worth of suffering and violence wasn't enough for everything they'd endured. "_BUT YOU LOST! YOU LOST AND ITALY-" _

As stoic as Kiku Honda was, Ivan Braginski was just as concerned with making sure he was never perceived as weak. Loneliness in a cold land could break the spirit and shatter the heart. It was better to never let the General know how much his storms hurt and wounded you in case the next one blew you away. After centuries of conditioning it took a lot to make any of the hurt come forward, it didn't matter what caused it anymore: the hurt of dying, the hurt of watching others die, the hurt of being helpless, of being mortal, of being broken down into pieces of what he was supposed to be, of feeling like he was forever removed from the whole.

He was the Russian Federation and this mansion had broken him. This cursed ruin, this godless beast, this place that existed everywhere in all time-lines, this place where everything that happened in or near it was real. It was all real.

It hurt and it hurt and Kiku's voice was coming from someplace deep down inside of them both, rising in volume and pitch until it soared over the broken debris and attacked the grey sky domed over their heads. Ivan closed his eyes against the stinging sensation that was too dangerous to give into when you were standing in the cold. Russian tears were as rare as Japanese screams, but when he was standing in front of this door and these ruins... he didn't have the strength to keep them back. They were things that hadn't wanted to be free, that hadn't known how to escape: but they could come out now, because it was over.

"_**ITALY WON!"**_

And the nightmare was over.

* * *

Canada wanted to go home. It was the highest priority on his list, or maybe just second-highest, but he really, really wanted to leave Europe behind and go home. He just needed America to wake up first because it would be wrong to leave without making sure his brother was okay. In fact, scratch that: it would be wrong to leave without making sure his brother was on the same plane with him. After what they'd gone through, Canada didn't mind landing in an American airport or military base if it meant making sure his twin was going to be alright.

It was all too reminiscent of terrible dreams and horrible memories of the mansion; of America and England trading off stupid, reckless acts with one another so that no matter what, one of them always died in every loop. Canada couldn't think of a single one where both had survived except for theirs, and that was too painful to consider.

There was conflict, wide and varying, about where to treat the wounded and injured after their mission's conclusion. The Nations who had vanished had had no choice in the matter: Poland had woken up in the Tomb of the Unknown in Warsaw, China had called Russia several times so Canada knew he was beaten up and burnt, but whole and alive in Beijing.

The mission was almost twenty-four hours behind them and Canada had only slept for the last four. He'd done a very brief circuit of the military hospital in Bern to figure out where every one was and how they were doing, and then come back here to America's small room.

Finland and Denmark were still standing watch over Norway and Sweden. The former had worked his magic until his heart burst from over-exertion, the latter had been blasted back during their assault and been run through on a large branch- the falling pillar hadn't helped either. They would both be alright and Sweden was expected to wake up first, but he wouldn't recover as quickly as Norway. The nordics were prepared to stay in Bern until both of them were awake and strong enough for travel back home.

Prussia was doing alright and had sent Germany back to Berlin. Canada wasn't sure what he thought of that. On the one hand it made sense: they were nations first, people second, and the German Federation needed to be around German people for a while before he could handle whatever was waiting south of the border. But at the same time... This was Italy they were talking about. Italy who'd died, and come back, and then died again, didn't that sort of trauma demand something more from his closest friend? Italy would need time too, but Canada just hoped Germany knew what he was doing.

In the meantime, Prussia was here with Hungary. Canada had spoken to him a few times, sometimes Prussia would leave Hungary's side and come see him, and every couple of hours Canada could pull himself from America's quiet bed-side and sit with his German friend. They didn't have more than a few ounces of history together, but the mansion had more or less made friends of them all.

Even if friends was too much for some of them, the bond was still strong enough that Canada was alright watching Hungary not breathe on the sterile hospital bed. The last time he'd been in there he'd noticed how Hungary's hair had been brushed and pulled back off her face. Several deep lacerations had gouged her cheek, but the organ-bruising shock of the first plane's explosion had been what did her in. She would wake up, and Prussia would wait until she did.

Japan hadn't said where he was going exactly, but he'd gone with Germany to Berlin in the meantime. Hopefully those two would be able to figure something out before Japan left for Asia.

England hadn't died. He'd passed out, yes, but his heart hadn't stopped and- despite a fierce scare for Wales, Canada's former guardian had only required minor assistance to keep breathing after the wild magic he'd cast. He'd physically reached too far: through the barrier and into a speeding jet-fighter, there was no way to understand how he'd even managed to pull it off but the price had been pain and trauma that far exceeded the punishment he'd been dealt in the Final Loop.

Canada had just been about to leave the room with the four members of the United Kingdom when England had sluggishly regained a few moments of consciousness. He'd barely been awake enough for a nurse to run a quick series of tests on him, and then with a slurred attempt at America's human name England had faded out again.

It... Canada hadn't known how to take that, but whatever his reaction it hadn't been as bad as Scotland's. The eldest Briton had stormed out of the room and presumably left the hospital, but as soon as Canada came back to America's room that was where he found England's brother.

"This is who he did it for," was all he said, and then with a curt nod the Scotsman had left again. All things considered Canada could have walked in to find Scotland strangling or smothering America with a pillow, so he was relieved that things ended the way they did. It was also Scotland who requested that England remain in Bern until he was well enough for the ride back to London. England had woken up a few more times since then, but he didn't seem ready yet, according to his brothers.

Canada suspected they were waiting for America to wake up, and they were only doing it for England's peace of mind.

Russia went home, but only after spending the night keeping watch by Canada's side. It was nice to have someone next to him, someone who preferred to be calm rather than wild, someone who was willing to while away the hours talking about whatever. Friendly conversation that had nothing to do with monsters, or clocks, or blood, or gunfire, or plane-crashes. It was the emotional cushion they both needed, it was what let Canada sleep for those four hours after Russia finally bid him good bye and returned to Moscow.

He'd only woken up again after four hours because that was when a harried and exhausted-looking France finally found his way into the room.

"How are you feeling?" Quiet French and a warm hand on his shoulder were what brought the sleepy blonde out of his dark sleep. Canada hadn't meant to fall asleep in his chair next to America's bed, but the steady beeping of the heart-rate monitor had lulled him into temporary darkness. It was almost noon outside, but Canada's internal clock was so smashed and broken that he really had no idea where he was. "You look terrible, do they have any showers here?"

"I'm not sure." Canada answered in a groggy whisper, carefully pulling his glasses off and rubbing his face with one hand. He was still wearing his dirty fatigues from the day before, having only had a chance to wash his face and hands since arriving. Well, he'd certainly had had the _time_ to get cleaned up, but he hadn't thought about it. "Probably. It's military, right?" The base. The hospital. They were in a hospital, right?

"You're hopeless when you're sleepy. Here." A tall paper cup filled with something hot was placed in Canada's hand, worry sparking in his stomach at the thought of terrible European coffee- he could handle it in small doses, speciality brews and wretchedly strong concoctions, but not right after a nap. "Don't make that face, it's tea." He wanted coffee from home, the much lighter, much nicer brew he was used to in the red cups he loved.

But tea would do.

"_Cinnamon._.." It wasn't maple, but Canada didn't export enough of his favourite condiment to warrant France finding it at a random Swiss cafe. "Thanks." The warm scent was comforting and reminded him enough of home that he could just sink into his uncomfortable chair and tease his tongue with the warm drink. In the time it had taken France find him here the tea had cooled to the perfect temperature. He closed his eyes peacefully as he heard the other nation pull a chair over from the wall so he could sit next to him, America's sleeping form in easy reach.

"This too."

A croissant wrapped in paper. Canada didn't feel hungry but he knew he hadn't eaten anything since this time yesterday- actually several hours before, so he bit into the flaky pastry without worrying too much about it. His stomach was empty and graciously accepted the food, his nerves at ease knowing he wasn't going to chase the butter with black espresso.

"So..." Canada started, licking semi-sweet crumbs off his lips before forming the words. France had had a chance to clean up and change into street clothes: jeans and a long blue jacket, simple leather shoes and his usual blonde scruff. His hair was pulled back in a tail at the base of his head, but he still looked worn-out when Canada caught a good look at his blue eyes. "What happened up there?"

They talked their way through the mission slowly. The breakdown in communication, the hair-raising interference from the monster, the terror when the first Italian plane had burst into flames and plummeted from the sky...

"I know Romano will be able to tell us who was who and all of that, but I still took this when we landed," France said, holding up a set of stainless steel Italian dog-tags for Canada to see. When Canada asked how he'd got a hold of them (and why was the chain broken?) France just shrugged with a smile and said: "Big brother has his ways." Big brother?

"I thought you wanted me to call you Papa?"

"Papa is only for you, my dear." Him and other former Colonies who actually _liked_ France, at least. "You wound me, Matthew! Alas, my poor heart..."

It felt good to laugh, and it felt even better when someone interrupted them:

"God damn... speak English, will ya?"

Canada set his cup down on the little table attached to America's bed, quieting his laughter but trying not to wipe the smile off his face as he stood up. France stood too, but hung back a little by the foot of America's bed, keeping his distance so as not to crowd them.

"Hey, how're you feeling?" From French into English, Canada spoke the words carefully and in a soft voice as he looked down at the half-lidded blue eyes struggling to look up at him. America's smile was crooked and he looked funny without his glasses, but he'd had to wear contacts during the mission and Texas had been folded up neatly next to the bed since they'd arrived.

"Like _shit..._ What happened?" America was playing with his tongue after he finished the words, curling it back and forth behind his teeth and making a funny face. Canada just smiled a bit more and picked up the bottle of water next to his tea, cracking the seal and dropping a straw in through the neck before holding it out. He wouldn't feel all the way better until he brushed his teeth, but a drink would help.

"You crashed."

America chuckled around his water, sucking back a few more gulps before releasing the straw. His goofy grin was back and he lifted one arm up and back behind his head.

"_Right..._ No, seriously, what happened?" Canada raised an eyebrow at the question, but he just shrugged and gave a bit of a laugh as he set the water down.

"You... came in on your approach, you fired at the target... and then you crashed."

"Dude, I didn't crash."

"Al..." Canada was trying really hard not to frown at his brother, but it wasn't easy. "Your plane punched a smoking crater into trees on the property. You almost died."

"I feel fine." America shot back, and Canada didn't doubt his ability to recover. Going from _'shit' _to '_fine'_ like that was a bit of a stretch, but he'd been passed out sleeping for a day and the more he spoke, the clearer he was becoming. Being top dog had its perks, even if America was stuck over-seas. "I haven't crashed a plane since '45. Like, I mean with me flying it."

Instead of answering, Canada took the breath necessary to form the words and just held it in. He didn't want to argue right now, his brother had _just_ woken up and the guy deserved to have a few hours of peace. They were supposed to be happy, their mission had been a success, and this wasn't the time for squabbling.

"We'll talk about this later." Or, more accurately, America would talk about it with his boss when he had to explain why the air-force was missing an F-16.

"In the meantime..." France said, his voice smoothing over the rough conversation as he nudged Canada's shoulder to get the other blonde's attention. "Do you know if England is still here? I'd hate to pass Paris for London, but-"

"Where's here?" America interrupted, and Canada looked between the two of them for a moment, ordering his next sentence carefully.

"Switzerland. You've been asleep since yesterday, America." He said the words as kindly as he could, hoping his brother wouldn't misconstrue them as some kind of criticism, then he looked back at France. "And he's still here, his brothers don't want to move him until he feels a bit stronger. Prussia's on this floor with Hungary, Japan and Russia went home, I think Spain was waiting for you to get here and Germany's already left for Berlin."

"Is this a hospital?" America cut in again, interrupting France who'd been about to say something. "What the fuck is England doing in a hospital?"

_"Language_, Amerique." France rolled the sound of the name over his tongue to emphasize the criticism without actually saying as much. His blue eyes found Canada's right after, and as if he could read the Canadian's thoughts, France switched over to his native tongue again: "Is he on this floor?"

"One above us," Canada followed suit. "His brothers are all there."

"Of course." France smiled at them both and let his words slip back into English for America's benefit. Canada was well aware of how hotly his brother was watching the back of his neck, expecting an answer to his question and clearly frustrated, as he always was, by the bilingualism. He shouldn't have been so upset: America knew multiple languages, but he was tired and therefore too cranky to put up with anything except English right now.

"Do not stress yourself, my friend. And if I do not see you again then have a safe trip home."

"Right."

"_Au revoir_, Papa." A pat on the ankle for the bedridden American and a quick, rough hug for the Canadian, and with that the Frenchman was gone.

"Explain."

"Why are you being like this?" America's voice was hard when he made the demand, Canada giving what he thought was a valid response as he looked down at his hard-eyed brother again. "Texas is on the table there if your eyes are blurry. Are you hungry?"

"Canada, tell me what happened." He'd take that as a_ no _on both counts then.

"How far back do you want me to start?" Taking his seat again at America's bedside, Canada picked up the lukewarm tea France had brought him and sipped at the spicy cinnamon again.

"What happened to England?" They both needed a shave and a shower, fresh clothes would have been nice too, but for now America seemed willing to ignore everything else as he sat up a little and took a good look around his hospital room. There was next to nothing of note besides the bed, chairs and unnecessary monitors hovering around him, but he performed his scan anyways.

"Over-exertion, but he's expected to recover." Canada answered, prepared for when America's harsh blue eyes rounded back on him. "Al, he's fine. He's a nation-"

"Did his heart stop?"

"No. But Norway's-"

"What about his eyes?" Canada was quiet for a moment, using the cup as his excuse. He didn't appreciate being drilled for information, least of all in that tone of voice.

"Cloudy, but I haven't seen him awake for more than a few minutes."

"Why?"

"Pain meds." America's hand was gripping the blankets tightly, and Canada wondered if he'd noticed it yet. "They're going to take him off of them sometime today though, he's healing quickly."

"From what?"

"You know we can go see him if you-"

"_Canada._"

"Yes?"

Silence. Because polite responses had a habit of catching America off-guard. It didn't always work- Canada wasn't always polite, but it disarmed his brother this time and the northern twin waited patiently for the other one to regroup. Finishing off the contents of his paper cup, Canada dropped it in the waste basket next to the bed and settled back into his chair again. America didn't take his eyes off him, and he didn't stop scowling, but he did calm down.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He can't walk." Dancing around the issue was only getting him on America's bad side, so Canada was upfront with it now. "And there's some paralysis in his arms as well, when he over-extended himself the magic ripped up his spine." Up his spine and out along his arm, crippling his hand while he was at it before he collapsed. England was already doing better, he was getting the feeling back bit by bit the longer he slept, but he was going to be in recovery for a while.

Canada watched his brother stare at the wall for a few minutes in complete silence, thinking back to what little he still remembered of the time loops inside the mansion. Should he tell America _why_ England had over-reached like that? Would it just upset him if he-?

"That _asshole!_" oh, um, "What the fuck is wrong with that guy? Does he get off on burning himself out like that all the time?" America's face twisted into a snarl and he snapped the words like an angry dog. Canada just sat there silently, watching, trying to read his brother and figure out if he meant the words or not. It was in America's character to lash out if he was actually worried, but that wasn't what this sounded like... "God damn, when are we going home?"

"Don't... you want to see him?"

"I did before you told me he was such a douche." Watching his twin fold his arms and scowl, Canada could read him just fine and he wondered why the blunt rebuttal hurt him a little bit. "I knew you guys on the ground were having a rough time, but seriously, I thought he was better than that." Said the guy who'd crashed and now denied it. As America flopped onto his side so he was facing him instead of the wall, his brother picked up on Canada's troubled feelings. He was actually choosing to read the atmosphere for once, and Canada didn't mind it.

"Oi, what's that face for?"

"I'm just exhausted." Canada answered, closing his eyes and scratching the back of his head to relieve a dirty itch. He really wanted a shower. "You're right, it was rough on the ground but France told me it was just as tight in the air."

"It was fucked up, I'll give you that much..." Quiet again, but not for as long, and not nearly as strained. Canada wasn't lying: he really was just too tired for all of this.

"You up for a civilian flight?" He asked.

"I'm up for gettin' out of Europe." America flashed him a toothy grin. It looked a little forced, but that was alright. "And First Class'd be great, but France has my wallet." He'd probably left it with his personnel back at the Istres Air Base, the place he and France had launched their planes from in order to provide air-support during Italy's rescue...

"Pay me back when we get home?"

"S'long as we go _home..._" And they would.

But first they'd shower, and shave, and find fresh clothes...

* * *

**It's 14 pages long but you know what? I wrote it five times.**

**On this note however, I should point out that my Tumblr account (LSunnyC) has become a dumping ground for all the scene fragments that didn't make the final cut. A lot of the stuff that happened but didn't get shown has been tossed up under the hashtag "HetaOni: Recovery" for those looking for more, ship-teases included.**

**-Repost, September 18th, 2012.**


	2. Adriatic Rain

**Secret Door, Am I Not Human?, Utopia, Safe and Sound, Paradise, Youth of the Nation, Requiem for a Tower, Stand My Ground, that song that sounds like a mandolin (by Sentive), Empty, Pale, Somewhere.**

**Special thanks to Musicforeverinmysoul for beta'ing Chapters 1-3, and Lucky-Angel135 for going through Chapter 1 again for me.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Adriatic Rain

It was raining. The sound of it kept trying to drown out the voice of the blond woman speaking through the television. It was just politics, a report on a small UN mission that had gone almost unnoticed by the rest of the world up high in the Swiss Alps. The only reason the TV was even on in the apartment was because the mission was meant to rescue an Italian diplomat who had been kidnapped during a World Conference last month. The terrorists who took him were hiding in Switzerland, they had been there for a very long time, so now things were tense between the Alpine Republic and the former Kingdom of Italy.

Popular opinion wasn't always enough to change international politic, but the President and Prime Minister had been on the air all week telling the Italian people, North and South, that the Swiss authorities had done everything in their power to accommodate and help the UN forces. Now they were saying that the mission was a success, so the Italian servicemen who made up a portion of the task-force were on their way home. The Italian diplomat would be coming with them.

The news broadcasters wouldn't say where in the country he'd be staying, and it was probably Rome, but the people hearing the broadcast (specifically those in the province of Veneto), knew that he was a Venetian. The poor boy, they wouldn't show his picture but somehow everyone seemed to already know that he was a young man, one with auburn hair and who always had such a cheerful smile. For some reason they felt involved in this short little news story story. They felt hurt by it.

The family in the apartment wondered if he was going to smile the same way he used to, and they left the nightly news on so they could listen to the broadcast a bit longer. No one in Venice was really sure why they couldn't turn off their radios or change the television channel to catch the end of the football game, but they just couldn't. Even the young people kept checking their phones constantly, waiting for news updates, it was uncanny. There were facebook pages and blog posts and petitions, plans for meet-ups and vigils and awareness campaigns: Italian Nationalism, Northern Separatism, Globalization and dozens of other topics are bouncing around in cyberspace, trying to manifest in the real world.

But more than anything, everyone just wanted to know when the diplomat was coming home to Italy. All of that fascination just boiled down to the fact that they felt like they had to keep track of when he arrived back home, back in Venice.

In this apartment however, a sudden sound broke through the repeating news story. At first it just sounded like someone moving loudly up the building stairs, but there was an angry shout of- what was that? It was Italian but obviously not something you usually heard in Venice. Was that a Neapolitan dialect? This building was in San Marco, a good, respectable part of Venice: San Marco's Basilica was literally two minutes and a small bridge away from their front door. The stones making up this building were so old almost all of the utilities had to be added in at some point, not built with it. This was a good part of Venice: what was a southerner doing in this building?

The family went back to what they were doing, carefully ignoring the commotion in the stairwell as it died down. The broadcast stayed on but it was turned down a little. They weren't trying to snoop, but the flat above theirs was usually locked up for most of the year, and yet just last week it was opened up by two men this family didn't know.

They were very familiar with the happy-go-lucky young man who came to spend his winters in Venice; with his auburn hair and honey-brown eyes he was hard to mistake for anyone else. He worked for the government, he handled foreign trade negotiations and he was a lovely painter. They knew better than to think that the sour-looking man who arrived and left last week with a greying clergyman was the same man, but maybe his brother. The three of them did look quite alike...

Banging. They heard it again and this time the TV was turned off so they could listen properly. The man of the house opened the door leading out into the half-lit stairwell, and he could hear swearing and grumbles from the level above. The flat on the top floor of their building had an iron gate over the front door as an extra bit of protection, not uncommon in a building this old, but someone was obviously fighting with it and, by the sounds of it, losing pretty badly. The man from the third floor flat was just considering going up and asking what was wrong when he noticed a peculiar smell, then he looked down at the stairs next to him.

It was raining outside, storming really, but in the soft amber light coming from the lamp next to his door the man could see that the streak was not just wet, but red. The smell had a metallic tang to it, and the grunts and swears from the level above were frantic. But there had to be a perfectly rational explanation for what was going on: there was no sense in panicking. The voice floating down wasn't _angry_, at least not until-

_Bang!_

"Shit!"

_Bang!_

The man on the third floor immediately slammed his door shut, and then he locked it, bolted it, and told his wife to hurry into the bedroom with their sleeping children. They called the police using their daughter's cell phone and told them to hurry. Guns were not fired in good neighbourhoods like this.

* * *

Tonight was a very bad night in Venice. The itself rain was not a danger but it just added to the sinister mood. The problem was the storm blowing in from the Adriatic sea. It wasn't the right season, and with the wind and the currents water levels were rising throughout the floating city.

It wasn't _just_ a bad night in Venice however. No one was really sure why, but there had been calls coming into law enforcement offices all day from all across the region. People were panicking and they didn't know why, there was anxiety filling the air and in cities like Milan and Florence there were riot police patrolling the streets, breaking up gangs of nervous, flighty citizens who kept gathering uncontrollably. Were they flash-mobs? Not according to the internet. But where there were gatherings there was chanting, and where there was chanting, there was violence.

The violence was concentrated in foreign neighbourhoods, it was happening in public places. It wasn't shootings and mobs, but it was random attacks on tourists: American, Japanese, Russian... any kind of tourist, especially the German ones. Sometimes it was as simple as a pick-pocket, not an uncommon complaint in any large tourist-heavy area, but spontaneous beatings were not normal: four people had been attacked in Venice already, and crowds kept clashing with police in Pisa.

So really, tonight was a very bad night across Northern Italy. So far nothing had been heard from the south, or in Ravenna or Genoa, and Rome even had some _good_ news regarding that UN mission in Switzerland, but the northern cities were suffering.

Gunshots were heard in a residential building in the San Marco sestieri at nine-thirty at night. A patrol boat quickly arrived on the scene and the officers had a bad feeling about responding to such a distressing call so close to San Marco's Basilica... but they hurried inside. They knew the call came from the third floor and that the problem was on the fourth, so they climbed straight to the top of the building without knocking on doors. If there was a gunman inside, they had to take care of him first.

The fourth floor apartment had an iron gate over the door, but before they took a look at it both men were held back by the gory sight that filled the landing. Blood was smeared all over the top few steps, not a thick, spilling flow, but scuffs and streaks and prints all over the place. Next to the gate, in the corner, there was even more blood on the wall but it only came up to about the officers' hips: someone was slumped here and made to wait.

The lock on the gate had been shot off, the lock on the door was treated the same way.

"_Carabinieri, _open up!" The senior officer called, because you didn't just barge in when you didn't know what was going on. There was no response from inside, and the building was quiet except for the storm outside. The two shared a look and one quickly radio'd back to call for a paramedic team and possible support. Venice was not prone to mafia violence, but with changing laws in the south the north had started having trouble with their kind. These two didn't want to have to deal with mafia tonight.

Sidearms out, they stepped inside.

Because the locks were shot, both barriers opened up easily- but loudly in the case of the gate. The blood was a grizzly trail that led over the threshold and across the wood floors. Most of the furniture in the flat was covered up in sheets and plastic to protect it while the owner was away, making it difficult to see around anything. The gunman didn't turn on the light either, so as lightning flashed outside this all felt like a bad action movie.

There was a light on deeper in the flat however, and they could hear running water further inside around a corner. Crossing the dark living room they lowered their weapons but didn't put them away. There was a voice down the hall where the water and light were, a male voice, clearly upset. His southern accent was heavy.

"_Carabinieri!_" The same officer put a bit more gusto in his voice this time, making sure the man down the hall _could_ hear them and hoping that he wouldn't do anything stupid. The talking immediately stopped but the water was left running.

"What- _police?" _ The same voice with the same accent. They could hear a shower curtain being fought with before a shadow crossed the light spilling into the hall. One of the officers lifted his weapon again but the senior held a hand out, telling him to be careful. _"Why the fuck are you-!"_

"Someone called to report gunshots and blood. We've already called the paramedics."

"Gunshots? _Shit! _I don't need a fucking ambulance!" Pacing footsteps and a harsh whisper, then, frantically: "I didn't have the fucking key! I had to get in and that bastard had the damned key!"

"_Signore-"_

"You want the gun? Take them both! _I don't fucking care!"_ The shadow suddenly shrunk to show that the man was kneeling down, and next came the unmistakable sound of a gun sliding across the dusty floor and lightly knocking against the wall as it stopped. Just a pistol, and neither of them could see for sure but it almost looked like the berettas both officers were holding.

But the problem wasn't the side-arm, it was the _assault rifle_ that came skating by the first gun and and laid motionless on the floor.

"_Just get out!_"

"Signore that's a military gun!" It- that's not-!

"_YES, BECAUSE I'M THE FUCKING MILITARY!"_ He was a- did that make him a service man? "NO!"

A hand reached out through the doorway. A short rolled-up sleeve patterned with camouflage followed, as did the matching pants and military-issue boots laced up over his ankles. A utility belt was still hanging around his waist but the weapons he'd been carrying were on the floor. The dark green vest and black beret of the army were missing, but his green eyes made up for it as they flashed in the poor light. His dark brown hair was longer than they'd expected from a service man, a peculiar curl flaring off from the right side of his bangs. His hands were up and both officers holstered their guns to encourage him to remain compliant.

Then they notice just how red his hands and arms were, how there was blood streaked on the side of his face and rubbed into the brown pattern over his shoulders. He didn't turn around but... they could already tell that it was a _lot_ of blood... The man just stared at them for a moment like he was scared, and he probably had every reason to be, but then something changed in his posture and he droped his hands to his hips. His brows come down in a scowl and suddenly they were being lectured-?

"I'm not a service man, idiots, I _am_ the service!" That, that didn't make any- "You're looking at the _Repubblica Italiana-_ look at me and tell me I'm lying!" They _were_ looking at him, and that was what made it so incredible. He just said the most ridiculous thing imaginable and yet... they believed him?

"B...but your accent-"

"_I'm the fucking south, you idiot!"_ It felt like they were being shouted at by their own captain. Neither officer knew what to do as they found themselves standing stiffly at attention, listening to this sharp-voiced little man yell at them. "You wanna help? You wanna send an ambulance somewhere? Then you get on that fucking radio and you tell your superiors to send a warning to Siena." Siena? But that was so far from-

"I'll bet you anything there's some upsets going in Torino right now, right?" There was a shooting, a gunman opened fire in a French Restaurant... "And Milano?" The mobs... "You think this storm is gonna do anything good to your precious _Ve-_" The man stopped and pinched his lips together suddenly, a terrible look in his eyes as he shook his head quickly and then gestured for them to get out.

"Tonight is a bad night for Italy. _All_ of Italy. Now go send a message to the Carabinieri in Siena and get the fuck out of my brother's house." All of Italy... This man in front of them wasn't injured, there were no tears in his clothes and his hands, now that they were really looking, were wet as well as bloody. The shower was still going in the bathroom and he kept glancing back in through the doorway.

South Italy was standing in front of them but all the problems were happening in the northern half of the country.

They were in North Italy's house...

"Yes_, _Sir_."_ It was surreal, it couldn't be true, but there was simply no denying it and suddenly they both felt... not quite ashamed- they were doing their job, they came here for a reason and that was to protect their fellow citizens. Carabinieri were part of the armed forces, they may not have gone to Switzerland for the latest mission, but they were still... patriots? Was that the word this strange man's presence inspired? It was too much to think about right now. "Please forgive us for the intrusion."

"Just get back to work." And that was the end of it.

* * *

After those bastard Carabinieri left Romano slammed the bathroom door this time. He couldn't do anything about the damage he'd done to the front door, so if the stupid neighbours who'd called the stupid police wanted to be stupid fucking snoops and come upstairs then they were welcome to it. He hated pulling rank if he didn't have to, it was awkward, it made people gawk and stare, but he'd damn well do it if it would keep them from seeing Veneziano.

"Wake up, c'mon!" Veneziano had one of those really old-fashioned bathrooms with the big copper tub and the mounted shower-head that you couldn't move. And a bath-curtain, because it matched the style of the tub. Romano tore the curtain aside again so he could see his brother, having pulled the pasta-patterned sheet over Veneziano's slumped body when he heard the officers in the hall. He didn't want to explain, they'd seen the blood that had soaked through Veneziano's uniform outside the front door.

Fuck him for having that stupid iron gate! And fuck Romano for ever suggesting it in the first place!

"Wake up!" The shower was spilling warm water onto Veneziano's torso, although cold might have been better, maybe, Romano wasn't sure. His blue tie was on the floor in a puddle of bloody water, his tunic half open where Romano had been fighting with the soaked garment before the police got there. His face was a deathly pale colour that made the blood and filth on his cheek stand out, his eyes closed and head lolling back against the edge of the tub where Romano had propped him, trying to get some heat into his body after they'd come through that fucking rain.

His auburn hair was wet, his skin cold, but warming up as Romano kept taking up handfuls of water and splashing him, trying to make his brother come back. He'd slapped him a couple times too, but it hadn't done any good.

Romano tried remembering what had happened, tried not to let his temper get away from him as he gave up on manipulating Veneziano's limbs out of the uniform. He found the combat knife at his belt and carefully- _carefully_ grabbed the thick blue tunic and sawed through it. Romano pulled off the sleeves and found the red burns from the grenade that had been too close to him. He swore repeatedly under his breath, deciding that no, he couldn't leave the wound like that, and hurried to tear through the contents of the sink cupboard looking for a first-aid kit.

Found it.

Ointments wouldn't do Veneziano any good, but the bandages were useful and his brother, always a klutz, kept dozens of rolls of fresh gauze. He wrapped the burn and splashed cold water over the wraps so it would help sooth the inflamed skin. When Romano took off the other sleeve he found the gunshot wound below the shoulder that, hopefully, wasn't going to cause their people any more trouble tonight: Veneziano had been human when it happened, right? The shot had blown apart the muscle and probably shattered the bone inside, but was low enough that it had probably left the joint alone.

There was nothing Romano could do about the mangled flesh that made up the lower half of his brother's arm. Switzerland's surgeon had tried what he could with the abused muscle before they reached the border, but Romano had been too impatient trying to get to Venice to let the man keep fussing with it. Either Veneziano's arm would heal or it wouldn't, it depended more on his constitution as a Nation than the laws of biology and medicine: he knew the arm was cleaned up, stitched and wrapped, and that was all he could focus on.

Romano didn't know what to think about what he knew was happening outside these walls. Veneziano had been wounded badly and repeatedly, but he'd been human when it happened, right? But was he a Nation again? But he hadn't spent consecutive years inside the mansion. The time had been broken up by the start of every loop, the hours or days he'd stall the others at the conference before they'd leave for the house. Just like everyone else, he'd been Nation and Human on and off for years... What would that mean?

He stopped thinking. This wasn't helping. He was only freaking himself out and he'd have to make sure he spoke to Seborga as soon as he could. Romano was the Southern half of Italy, but Seborga was one of Veneziano's subordinates: he'd have a better idea of what was going on inside _North_ Italy.

But maybe it- the violence, the tension, the supreme unease. Maybe it proved that Veneziano wasn't going to quit on him and die, maybe it proved that his little brother hadn't been transformed into some mortal weakling. Maybe that would be the case, but as he found the long tweezers in the first-aid kit Romano couldn't stop himself from wincing- from crying _just a little_, as he plunged the steel instrument into his sibling's flesh to find the remains of the bullet.

South Italy on foot had been faster than the jeep once they crossed the border, that was just the way things worked. Getting his brother back to Venice had been his priority, but he really should have let the surgeon do his job, damn it...

He wrapped the wound and then slashed the shoulders of both the blue and the black Veneziano had on, prying the blood-soaked garments off and letting them just lay in the water at the back of the tub. There would be a scar where two long claws had torn his brother's chest, but with time even that would go away... maybe.

He remembered the blast that had smashed Veneziano's body against a tree and Romano left the bathroom quickly to find his brother's ice trays. They were clean and put away in one of the kitchen cupboards, but in the dark Romano filled them at the sink and stuffed both of them in the empty freezer. He'd have to ice his brother's bruises later, there would be plenty on the side of his face and all across his shoulders. Veneziano'd been limping so one of his ankles would probably need care too...

He rushed back to the bathroom.

"Veneziano?" Good-bye belt. Veneziano kept spare clothes here when he left, right? Romano didn't think to check before he came back and cut through the knee of his brother's pant leg. The gash down his calf was bleeding, but clean. Shutting off the water because this wound would keep bleeding if he left it wet, Romano dried the skin and, steeling himself, found the suture kit. "I'll help you pay for the new roads." Maybe the storm outside would wash out one of the coastal highways, that would translate well- if it translated, Veneziano had been _human_ when this happened...

Four, five, six stitches just to hold the skin together, then padding and gauze all the way up and down the muscle.

"I'm serious, you bastard. You'd better wake up!"

His hair seemed longer than Romano remembered, and when he touched it with one wet hand his fingers came back with streaks of red and brown and something else. The sheer volume of filth had turned his brother's hair almost the same dark shade as his own- but too red. There was blood staining his face from a gash on his forehead; it was too shallow for more stitches but the rain had caused the red to run down over his eye and cheek. When he gently dragged a rag over his face the skin wound up a different colour, Veneziano's sun-kissed skin washed out and pale, so pale, worse than Romano could remember seeing it before.

When he got his boots off Romano found the swelling around one ankle that confirmed why he'd been limping. The older brother was _not_ crying as he did this.

"Just fucking look at me, will you?" He was _not_ crying, he was _not_ crying, he was _not_...

Getting Veneziano _into_ the tub had been hard enough for the brunet, so pulling his unconscious brother _out_ of it was even more difficult. In the bedroom the sheets on were stale from disuse but Romano didn't care, they were clean. He removed the wet pants and tore through the dresser looking for spare clothes, finding a couple things and pulling the old tee-shirt over his brother's head. He dried Veneziano's hair with the same towel that took the water off his limbs and back, found a pair of shorts and stripped the wet, blood-stained ones off to replace them.

He got his little brother into bed and then Romano didn't know what else he could do.

"Fuck you!" So he shouted, because the bedroom light was burnt out and he was standing in the dark looking at his comatose baby brother. "Just fuck you! _Wake up!_"

And he wasn't crying.

"_Do something!_"

And he wasn't thinking about the others.

"_Snore! Twitch! Groan! I don't care!"_

And he wasn't remembering _Veneziano's_ memories.

"_Look at me!_"

Romano stumbled forward in the dark, the only light in the apartment was coming from the bathroom glow he'd left on down the hall. He grabbed his brother's hand between both of his and dropped to his knees by the bed, holding Veneziano's wrist to his forehead.

"_Wake up...!_"

He felt around his brother's palm, pinching the cold flesh and looking for the pulse point. His throat and chest were too far away on the tall bed for Romano to reach out that way. He wanted to feel the fingers twitch when he pinched a nerve, he wanted his brother's body to react to his presence, he wanted to know that his brother's heart was beating, and that his lungs were still breathing.

"_Please wake up...!_" He hadn't opened his eyes since Romano had caught him. He hadn't moved on his own since he'd stopped running. Not in the woods, tearing away from that mansion. Not in the jeep that carried them out of Switzerland. Not on the road, running, to get to Venice. They couldn't have taken a train in their condition and Romano's radio had been fried so he couldn't contact the army. He'd also put a bullet in his phone when he heard the monster's voice crackling through it, so there had been no calling Seborga or San Marino for help either. The Swiss driver had been adamant about getting Veneziano to a hospital, not understanding why Romano was so frantic to get his brother all the way back to Venice. He'd chosen to leave them behind rather than find them both marooned just north of the border...

He _had_ to be here. It wasn't an option, Rome wasn't a substitute either. His name was Veneziano, Venezia, _Venice!_ This city was his heart and he needed to be here so it could keep beating, he needed to be here so he could keep _breathing..._

But... but his brother hadn't even reacted when they crossed the border, he probably didn't even know he was in Venice...

"You can't die in Venice_._" He was _not_ praying... "You were Venezia long before you were Italia, little brother, so you can't die in this city..." Romano set his head down on the bedding, lacing his fingers through Veneziano's and still holding on with both hands. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain pepper the roof and walls of the flat. There was thunder outside, and the wind off the Adriatic was strong tonight. "So please... just..._ just wake up..."_

Romano was _not_ begging...

* * *

**-AN Removed and chapter reposted, September 18, 2012**


	3. The Italian House

**Utopia, Safe and Sound, Paradise, Youth of the Nation, Requiem for a Tower, Stand My Ground, that song that sounds like a mandolin (by Sentive), Empty, Pale, Somewhere.**

**Tiny bit of humour this time around, because I thought we needed it.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

The Italian House

Austria was still in Bern, but unlike most of the other nations from the UN force he was not lingering around the hospital. On the one hand he simply had no stomach for waiting by Hungary's side watching Prussia go on in his way taking care of her. On the other, he didn't feel comfortable abandoning the host nation with no one but his little sister to look after him. It had been like this for almost three days.

There was no kind way to describe what Switzerland was going through. The burns and dismemberment were only the beginning of his troubles, and Austria saw it as his obligation as a nation to do what little he could to ease his suffering. Unfortunately, aside from ordering the few members of Switzerland's household staff to prepare his room and keep their master (an anachronistic term, but one Austria himself was still fond of) in a steady supply of fresh bedding and clean clothes, there was relatively little he could do. At least he was able to spare Liechtenstein the grisly task of holding Switzerland's hair back when he became ill, which was exceedingly often as his body performed the strangest purge Austria had ever seen.

Because really, how often did one vomit shards of glass, broken gears, and minute hands?

"Swiss clocks..." Hush now, talking only made it worse. "That thing... used Swiss clocks-!"

It was like a terrible strain of stomach flu, the kind that left Switzerland weak and trembling. Austria watched him spit blood into the plastic bucket kept precisely for this purpose by the bed, then carefully rinse his mouth out with water and spit that out as well.

"Your fever is going down."

"My knee..." Switzerland was crippled, but he was far too proud to accept any help rolling from his side onto his back again on the bed. Austria simply watched him struggle to move, wondering again why the blonde insisted on laying on his burns, but it was not worth it to argue with the Neutral state.

"You remember it's only temporary." Switzerland had been injured in the explosion, not crippled in spirit, and he'd already grown back almost two inches of the obliterated limb. The problem for him now was that joins were always unnecessarily _painful_.

"Well it feels like _hell..._" Yes, that was Austria's point.

"Do you want me to call your sister back in?"

"No..." The way Switzerland held his eyes closed, his red fingers groping at the blankets, meant his stomach still hadn't settled down yet. This was all very tiring, but Austria simply returned to his seat and placed one elbow on the arm rest, hooking one knee over the other and observing in case he was needed again. "...Thanks."

"You're welcome." For a few moments there was only the sound of Switzerland breathing heavily, trying to control what he had described as terrible nausea ripping apart his insides along with the pain that kept making him faint. However, once that began to calm down, the other nation seemed in the mood to talk a little.

"Is she still crying?"

"I believe so. Would you like me to go check on her?" Switzerland seemed to consider this for a moment, his green eyes only half-open under the uneven fall of his dark blonde hair. The fact that he didn't pipe up with an immediate refusal was indicative both of his increasing exhaustion, and his deep concern over Miss Liechtenstein.

"She should be upstairs. I think-" Austria watched his neighbour abruptly pause, sitting up carefully in case it was a sign of another heaving nightmare, but Switzerland made a sweeping gesture to say that this was not the case. But he was thinking very hard, and then closed his eyes again with a soft swear. Curious.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yes. Ugh... I forgot..." Well, was it something Austria could take care of? "I think so. He should still be there." He?

"Mister Switzerland?" A knock on the bedroom door prompted Austria to stand up and tug his suit jacket back in order. He'd arranged for fresh clothes to be delivered to Switzerland's house for him and had taken the time to clean up and rest after all of the excitement. Answering the door, Austria found himself facing Switzerland's housekeeper. "Ah, Mister Austria. I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's someone at the door."

Switzerland groaned quietly on the bed and Austria again checked to make sure it wasn't because he was sick. The Confederation had one hand up over his eyes and, even at from across the room, Austria heard him swear again. It wasn't like him to be so vulgar.

"Did this person give a name?" Austria asked.

"The, uh," The woman seemed highly unsure of herself, but Austria hoped she would be quick about what she had to say. "He... He called himself the Republic of... San Marino?"

...Austria needed a moment to process that information. He also needed to take a good, hard look at Switzerland, and as soon as his host pulled the bedsheets up over his face like he could hide in them, Austria knew that there was a serious problem.

"Yes. Please tell him I'll be right down."

* * *

Ten minutes later...

"Switzerland."

Silence.

"Switzerland, San Marino says he's looking for the Vatican City State."

No response.

"According to him, he's been missing for nearly a week."

A subtle shift under the blankets.

Finally, a voice:

"Austria."

"Yes?"

"I think I'm going to hell."

Yes. Yes Austria thought that too.

* * *

Romano could smell coffee. That was what woke him up.

He was confused though, because he woke up in a bed that he couldn't remember climbing into. There was also a heavy weight on his arm, a weight that had caused his right arm to fall asleep. He could hear rain tapping on the window and heard it running through the gutters outside. Faintly, over the smell of roasted coffee beans Romano could catch the diluted scent of blood, and when he opened his eyes he found himself laying with his nose buried in his brother's auburn hair.

Veneziano's head was resting on Romano's arm just below the shoulder, his other one crossed over his brother's chest where the younger Italian was sound asleep. Still pale, still dreaming without expression. Romano didn't know how he'd climbed into bed, especially since he'd been on the opposite _side_ of the mattress before, but the stale bedding was pulled up under his arm and tucked around him, and he was comfortable enough to know that he'd been like this for some time.

Checking his brother's throat with his free hand, there was a heartbeat. Closing his eyes, Romano could hear his brother breathing...

"...When did you buy a shirt that colour?" Mumbling the question as if it would wake up the nation next to him, Romano finally saw what he'd dressed his brother in the night before. An ugly mustard-yellow tee-shirt with white edges, it was a terrible colour on him and made his hair look violently red. No wonder Veneziano had left it behind in his winter residence...

For himself, Romano wasn't wearing his camouflage anymore. Flexing his toes slightly, someone had taken off his boots and belt too. His pants were probably still bloody, but the outer jacket was gone and had taken most of the blood anyways. He was laying in the black tee he'd worn under the combat gear.

Footsteps in the hall. The sound made him open his eyes again where he hadn't moved his face from the side of his brother's head. He wasn't tired enough to sleep, but he didn't want to move either... When he saw who it was making the noise, well, he sort of wished he'd pretended he was asleep again.

"Do you always shoot the locks off peoples' doors?" Veneziano's honey brown eyes looked down at him in disdain, but Vatican's voice was old and dry enough that the similarities were minute- lower too, pitched down so he sounded more like Romano than his little brother. The Micro-nation's thin grey hair was freshly combed across his scalp, Romano could tell that much even from where he was laying down, and Vatican's curl was almost invisible where it was hovering next to his head. The cleric wasn't dressed in the red choir robes that he'd had in Naples though, he was wearing a more casual black cassock with red piping, his heavy silver cross still hanging around his neck. His rosary was strangely absent from his hip.

But if he was here then that meant Switzerland had let him go... that was a good sign...

Vatican's face looked a little bit older than Romano remembered, a few extra creases lining the dry skin around his puckered lips and sunken eyes, but in his hands he was holding one small cup of coffee on a little saucer. South Italy chose to watch the cup rather than the Holy See's eyes as the serving was offered to him, and he carefully disentangled himself from his brother. He regretted it as soon as his arm started to tingle with the restored blood, but sat up and quietly took the coffee.

Small portion, incredibly strong, the cappuccino brew was more bitter than Veneziano would have liked, but Romano preferred the overpowering flavour... until he got that burnt aftertaste. Damn it, Papa! Vatican left without acknowledging Romano's harsh look, and he could hear him busying with something in the kitchen while he was out. There were voices, but it sounded more like background noise than actual conversation. Was it a radio...?

When he returned Vatican didn't sit down on the bed, but now was when Romano noticed the chair the older nation must have brought into the room at some point while he slept. He didn't drink his coffee either, but Romano chose to let himself become absorbed in the hot drink in his hands. The older nation filled the silence for him.

"...You really brought him back." He had... but not without help. "How bad is it?"

"I should be asking you." Romano shot the words back in the wrong tone of voice. Vatican didn't even twitch, he just crossed one leg over the other in his seat and stared at the sleeping nation laying between them.

"Then it's bad." Finally, the Holy See took a sip of his drink, lips pinching at the strength as he seemed disappointed. Damned bastard, he didn't even know how to make coffee the way he liked it! "I've walked to Saint Mark's twice since I arrived and have kept the radio going in the other room. The shootings in Turin have sparked fear in the region, and there have been two abductions of foreign visitors near Florence. This storm also isn't doing Venice any favours." Of course it wasn't, at Vatican's words a cascade of thunder rolled overhead, rattling the window panes across the dark room. Somewhere the sun was shining, but the clock on the wall told him the morning rays weren't having any effect on the city.

"Siena?" Because Romano had to ask.

"Hotel arson. It's wreaking havoc with the local authorities." And probably foreign relations too.

Romano wished he was surprised to hear this, but it made sense: Veneziano's body had been abused, but his _mind_ had been absolutely-

"What about you?" Huh?

"What _about_ me?" he repeated, swallowing more of the coffee. "I'm fine, all I have to worry about is making sure our economy doesn't collapse with all of this. The last thing either of us needs is a cold." But if Romano had much more of this _'coffee'_ without food he'd make himself sick anyways, the more he drank the more he realized just how bad a cup Vatican actually made. Setting the cup down on the small table next to his side of the bed, Romano dropped his hands into his lap and looked over at the older nation. The guy really should never have been allowed in a kitchen...

"I've been here for a day and a half." Shit, that wasn't what Romano wanted to hear. Closing his eyes, he brought one hand up and rubbed along his cheek and jaw, grumbling under his breath as he felt the long stubble that had taken over the bottom half of his face. It was at least three days' worth...

"San Marino expected you to be in Rome." Hmph. "We parted ways because I told him you'd said Venice and we weren't sure which it would be."

"_Venice_. I never said anything about Rome but that bastard never listens anyways." Irritated, Romano folded his arms crossly over his chest and scowled. "I'm impressed he even remembered where I told him to find you." He'd told San Marino to check Vatican's house in Rome before doing anything stupid, but if they'd met up and then argued about where to go then it sounded like Switzerland had been a dick- as expected.

"Just the same, he and Seborga are staying at the house in Rome." And that explained why this place had been locked up when he got here. He'd barely been thinking of it at the time, but now that Romano had calmed down he was surprised it was Vatican bringing him coffee and not one of the other Micro-nations. His brothers were annoying, but they weren't _completely _useless.

"Are they coming here?"

"Do you want them to?" That was a difficult question, and Romano's answer was just to lean back on the headboard over his pillow. After a moment or two, he answered with what he had.

"I want them to handle things in Rome for me." Which was a risky venture. Seborga was a part of Italy but he was also just a tiny village in the north west. He only represented that small-town, peaceful, law-abiding way of life that you could forget when you wandered into too many of their country's big cities.

San Marino was a bit better in that regard; he was actually his own nation, he had a decent sized population, a stable economy, his own taxes and elections and all of that... but while San Marino understood internal policy, neither of them had any grasp of international relations. UN membership, Council of Europe- _whatever_, Romano's older brother was surrounded by Italy on all sides, and if the last four hundred years meant anything then San Marino _liked _living all alone on his mountain. He went to fewer World Summits than Romano himself did, so putting that guy in Rome just... _ugh_...

"If those bastards want to help then they'll do their part in Rome and let me take care of him here. I don't want to hear anything about the capitol, not one _peep _until he's better." If he absolutely had to then Romano would rather send Vatican than go himself. So long as the economy was alright he was going to stay right here where he was needed.

"Mm... does that include talks about the war?" What war? "The one you almost started...? With Switzerland?"

"_Chigi!_ Don't give me that crap. That Swiss bastard wouldn't start a war over an air-strike he should have ordered weeks ago." And if it had already been at least two days, probably more, since the event then there obviously wasn't going to be a counter-strike. The original air-strike would be a scandal, it probably still _was_ on some level and would stand out as a black mark on their record together, but it wasn't something an actual war would break out over. Italy had _sort-of-maybe-yes_ broken the law, but he was willing to apologize, hand over a couple nice trade settlements to Switzerland and been done with it. The Vatican City had probably found himself under house-arrest for a few days as a precaution, but now that seemed to be settled. War had been the worst of the worst case scenarios.

"Is that what you'll tell him?" Who? That Swiss ba-? "No. _Him_." Vatican was looking at the bed, he was looking at Veneziano...

Romano's mood fell. He felt his temper burn itself out like an old lamp, leaving him cold despite the blankets.

"I'll tell him whatever he wants to hear." Even with them talking right over his head, all Veneziano'd managed to do was breathe in and out. No pauses or yawns, no stretching or scratching, he didn't even curl a hand or roll his shoulder to move. His face was so pale, that ugly yellow shirt washing the health right out of his scruffy face...

Silence. It stretched for several moments. Vatican's fingers pinched the silver crucifix hanging over his chest while Romano watched his brother breathe, counting. Finally, the Micro-nation took a breath and made to stand.

"I'll let you rest-"

"No." Romano had been thinking for a little bit, so he took Vatican's break in the silence as his chance. "Stay with him." Pulling aside the covers, Romano swung his legs around and stood up, feeling the room spin and the cool wooden floors leach the warmth through his socks. The apartment was cold.

"Are you sure?" Of course he was sure, he wouldn't hand over Veneziano's care to just _anybody._ "Where are you going?" Romano took a seat on the bed again after grabbing his boots, stuffing his foot inside one and quickly binding up the laces.

"There any food here?"

"Flour, but there's nothing but water and coffee beans to mix it with anymore." Vatican had probably been living off of- actually, Romano didn't want to think about it. If Veneziano wasn't in Rome with him or Berlin with that Potato-eater, _then_ he could be found in Venice. He wouldn't stock perishables in a flat he was only in for a few months of the year. They both knew that filling your kitchen with fresh ingredients was the best way to reconnect with a city anyways.

"Then I'm gonna go get food." He didn't ask why Vatican hadn't stocked the kitchen, with the two of them passed out the answer seemed obvious. Romano could remember how his father had reacted to everything going wrong with him before they'd figured out what the hell was happening to Veneziano. It took a lot to shake a Micro-nation like Vatican, but he'd started coming apart almost he had during the Reformation. Romano knew they'd treated each other differently after they understood what was going on at the mansion; how that had led to military plans and holy blessings and a side of the Holy See that South Italy hadn't seen in a long, long time...

So, with all of that together, he didn't want to think of what their father had been doing for two days while the brothers had been dead to the world. He wouldn't even acknowledge the mad shaking in Vatican's hands where he was still holding his cross.

"You're going out in _this_ weather?" Lightning flashed at just the right time to enforce Vatican's point, and Romano sent a dirty look back at him. Being sentimental wasn't going to get them anywhere right now. "No one is selling anything today."

"Well then what're we gonna do? Drink your shit coffee?" He finished with his other boot and stood up, hastily checking his camouflage-patterned pants before deciding there wasn't enough blood on them to worry. He quickly went over to Veneziano's closet and opened it, hoping to find something other than mothballs to wear. There was no way he could get the blood out of his uniform...

He found a jacket from the nineteenth century. Sentimental, but fucking useless.

"Your uniform is clean." Huh? Vatican was carefully covering his mouth with his coffee cup as Romano looked at him, the cardinal's eyes focused on the sleeping Nation. "It's hanging over the radiator, it should be dry." Vatican had washed it for him? Since when did this guy do laundry?

Leaving the closet behind, all he'd been able to find was another jacket that looked like Veneziano hadn't worn it since the nineteen-ninties. It would have fit, but it would have looked stupid with its dated cut and obvious dust collection. Wandering around the room to the coiled pipes that made up the heater, sure enough, the camouflage tunic he'd fallen asleep in was hanging over it, warm and dry.

"Romano." He pulled on the uniform jacket awkwardly, rolling down the sleeves a little. "Do his friends know where he is?" Uh...

Running his hands through his hair trying to tidy it up a little, if Romano hadn't been about to head out into a downpour he probably would have considered cleaning up first. There was no point in showering twice so he'd save the hot water for when he got back. The umbrella he'd seen was left behind in the closet as he shut the door; with the wind outside the thing would just break or fall into the canals. He shrugged a little at the question, then finally answered.

"I didn't tell them, and I don't know if he's ever brought anybody here." But maybe he had, it was none of Romano's business one way or the other but Veneziano was the type to keep his friends close no matter where he went. "The best bet would be Kraut-breath or Japan, and Austria was in charge of him for a long time too." So him or Hungary might know where the flat was. It didn't really matter either way to Romano. "Why? It's not like we're hiding him. I just want him here. He's always been Venezia." Romano's black beret was resting on the foot of the bed where he'd been sleeping, and he snatched that up quickly as he moved across the room, headed for the door.

"So if any of them show up, I should just let them in?"

"_Chigi_, they'll let themselves in. There's no lock on the door, remember?" Vatican didn't laugh, he didn't even move in his chair after Romano passed him. He just sat there, holding his coffee and staring at the bed. "If anyone shows up, tell them they can clean up that mess by the front door, or the in bathroom."

"I already took care of that." Then- wait, he had? "The washroom was appalling, it looked like you'd performed some sort of surgery when I arrived. I was going to do the outside next and spare his neighbours."

"Yeah, well..." Say it. He had to say it. "Well... _thanks_." The word didn't get him much of a response, but at least Vatican gave him a quick look out the corner of his eye. "But you stay in here until I get back. I don't want him waking up alone."

"He won't." ... "He won't be alone." Or he just wouldn't- "Lovino, you woke up and that means he will wake up. And when he does, like you, he will not be alone." When had Vatican learned his human name anyways..? Not even Veneziano-

"You aren't asking me to pray." It struck Romano as a very rude thing to point out but the words came before he could stop them. Right now wasn't the time for him to go throwing Vatican's help back in the Micro-nation's face. "This whole time, even when we met in Naples. Usually that's all you do; you get on our asses about not praying enough, not going to mass enough, not-"

"Lovino." What? "I have found you passed out on your knees twice since all of this began." Vatican's voice was appropriately sharp. Romano didn't find himself upset at the tone used on him, he just wanted to hear what the other Nation had to say. "If God wants me to pray then I will pray, if he wants me to act then I will act. If I thought you were doing anything except what you must then I would say as much, so listen to me when I say this." He hadn't stood up yet, and he turned his head only enough that Romano could see his face in profile. Vatican knew how to project his voice even when locked in such a passive stance.

"I am hungry, as are you. And when your brother wakes up he will be even hungrier. There is no food in this apartment, and even if there was between the two of us you are the only one who can cook a decent meal." Vatican... "Now go and do not get lost in the rain or fall into the canals. I will not come looking for you if you take too long."

No, because someone had to stay here with Veneziano, someone had to keep praying over him. For the first time since he'd woken up Romano noticed the rosary Vatican had wound around his brother's hand to pray on. He saw the bible resting on the floor where Romano himself had passed out praying several nights before, and there was a cross his bother didn't own standing on the night table by his brother's head, probably borrowed from the cathedral across the water...

"While you're gone I will call Rome, and when you get back I will clean up that filthy mess in the stairwell. Now go." Alright. Yes, he could do that. Veneziano would be safe here, Seborga and San Marino would handle things in Rome, and Vatican wouldn't let all his prayers over them both go to waste now...

"_Chigi!_ Don't boss me around, damn it!" The least Romano could do was go and find the food to keep his family's strength up.

* * *

**There were two scenes I could have picked up and tagged to the beginning or end of this chapter. One was San Marino actually collecting Vatican from the room Switzerland locked him in at the end of Final Loop, and the other was Romano interacting with a Venetian shop-keeper while picking up groceries and stuff. Neither scene was bad, but they feel out of place here.**

**Vatican snippet was already uploaded once to Tumblr with the usual tag "HetaOni: Recovery". The shopping episode might go up too, but there's a reason I cut it from here (it's a wee bit slow/monotonous).**

**Don't forget to review! Please? Maybe? It doesn't have to be particularly meaningful or clever you know, just something to prove you read the whole thing without quitting on me half-way down? _Please?_**

**-Repost, September 18, 2012**


	4. Those Axis Power Guys

**Stereo Hearts, Whole Playlist, Message for the Queen.**

**AN removed.**

* * *

_**Final Loop**_

Those Axis Power Guys

Soaked and miserable by the time he made it back through the rain, Romano was starving and not looking forward to having to cook his own meal. But he'd do it, he'd rather be tired than let Vatican poison him trying to make a sandwich.

Slipping through the large exterior doors and catching his breath for a moment, he started up the stairs: this building was old and there was no elevator. To make things even better, Romano immediately groaned as a pair of loud Italian voices reached him from one of the upper levels. A man and a woman were shouting in the stairwell, but their words weren't directed at one another? He didn't need this right now, damn it.

"That radio running all day and night! Hoodlums dragging blood up the stairs and shooting guns at night!"

"You should be ashamed, the smell of it! And for waiting so long before cleaning it up!"

"We should call the police again, and _this_ time-!"

Romano reached the third floor with his burdens and stopped when he saw the third floor occupants. A furious-sounding man in his ironed shirtsleeves and his shorter wife with a hysterical voice and rapid hand-gestures. Neither of them noticed him come up though, because they were too busy shouting at the short, flustered Asian man standing dumb-struck with a scrub-brush in hand and a bucket of soapy water set up behind him.

Romano was sure he'd never seen Japan look so embarrassed or uncomfortable before, but as much as he wanted to loudly demand to know just what the fuck the other nation was doing here, he wanted the shouting to stop first.

"So!" If anyone was gonna be loud it was gonna be _Romano_, damn it. "You make a habit of harassing _all _your neighbours then?" That got everyone's attention, including Japan's as the eastern nation just made uncomfortable sounds that didn't really mean anything.

"Who...?" Yes, look deeply into Romano's eyes, Citizen. Realize how badly you feel about causing a fuss when South Italy has had a very long fucking month. Now apologize and get the fuck back into your house, or off to work, or where ever the hell else you have to be today!

"Look, I can smell the bleach from over here." With their attention on him and his swears silently spent, Romano cut right to the chase. "He's cleaning it up just fine. I had to shoot the door because I didn't have a key, now there's no lock so I don't have to do it again." Anywhere else in the world, Romano knew, he'd be getting himself into a shouting match right now. Being a nation took care of all of that: Japan had probably been ten times more polite and courteous and in return he'd been attacked by two scared Italians. "Just go take _siesta_ or something, jeeze."

But because he was Italy, Romano's approach worked just fine. The people were scared, anxious, and looking for something to stabilize them. Having him there to order them around was that kind of touch-stone, it wasn't as effective as it would have been if Veneziano had cleared the matter up, but it still worked. They'd trust him, they'd understand him, and more importantly: they'd listen. Veneziano's neighbours looked at Romano and then down at their shoes, and then quietly retreated back into their flat without another words. He heard them lock the door afterwards, but dismissed it. He was too fucking tired for this shit.

"Ah... _arigato, Romano-san_..." Which left him alone with Japan. The other nation was dressed casually in blue jeans, a black tee shirt and grey sweater jacket, but his sleeves were up and the rubber gloves on his hands were red along the fingers. He gave his thanks awkwardly in Japanese and Romano scoffed at him as he walked up, ignoring the exhausted look in the Japanese man's eyes.

"I thought you fucking spoke Italian?" He put the words bluntly in English.

"I-I understand it very well, but to speak..." What, he couldn't remember what to say when he was being yelled at? "I've visited North Italy many times, but I've never..." Well Japan's people had been pretty fucking hostile after the war too, if he remembered right...

Romano didn't say that. He should have, but he just went up the stairs and expected Japan to either go back to cleaning or fo-

Holy fu-

"WHERE THE FUCK IS THE DOOR!-?" Back to Italian, because WHERE THE FUCK WAS THE DOOR?

Romano almost dropped the bags he was carrying, one foot on the fourth floor and the other still on the steps behind him. The smell of bleach was strong but not as bad as it could have been- the blood stained walls had been washed clean, and an abandoned mop was standing in the corner. But the door. The _doors_.

He was staring straight into Veneziano's flat, there was no door, no gate, _no door_- where the fuck did the fucking door go!-?

"Ah, Germany said-" KRAUT-BREATH WAS HERE TOO? "H-He left?" AND TOOK THE DOOR? WHO DID THAT? "To replace... it...?"

"Well where the fuck is my brother!-?" Not about to be reasoned with, he changed the subject and stormed inside, noting that someone had taken the sheet off Veneziano's long wooden dining table before Romano left the groceries there for the time being. The rest of the covered furniture had also been moved to the side and there was the faint smell of some kind of chemical cleaner in the air- not as strong as the bleach that had cleaned the staircase, but someone had obviously mopped the kitchen and living room.

Veneziano's flat was a simple four-corner layout: there was the front door that opened immediately onto the long dining and living room, tall windows flanking a patio door to Romano's right as he stormed inside- the balcony was on the west side of the building. There was another door on the north wall- the wall he'd just walked through -that led back into Veneziano's office for when he brought work from Rome to Venice. To Romano's left, the east side of the flat, there was a short hall and access to a small powder room and closet. The kitchen and living room hadn't always been one chamber, but Veneziano had knocked out the wall between the two once open-living came in style and central-heating made it easier to keep the place livable. Romano could remember helping him install the bar counter that formally separated the two spaces: a brick base with a pale wood surface perfect for cooking and serving.

Moving south from the front door, deeper into the flat past the kitchen, and there was a door to the left that led to Veneziano's studio. It was the room with wide windows to the south and east so even in winter it was always filled with light for whatever projects he was working on. If you avoided that door you found yourself in a hallway that turned west again. The main bathroom was here, then Veneziano's bedroom was at the end of the hall.

The door was closed, Romano didn't bother knocking before he stormed straight inside, Japan's feet padding quietly after him.

"_Oi!_ Are you up yet, you bastard?" Pissed off, he held on to that anger as he spoke, eyes closed as he shoved the door open. He wanted to hear an answer, damn it, not see one. He wanted to hear a stupid _'Ve~'_ or have Vatican snap at him for being rude, he wanted to hear the bedsheets rustling as the sound of his voice bothered the moron he'd carried halfway across southern Europe.

Instead Romano heard silence, and he opened his eyes to see Vatican sitting in his chair with his head down, that bible open between his hands. He just stared at the Micro-nation's back and didn't say anything else, found himself pursing his lips tightly and pinching them between his teeth to keep them together- to keep from speaking. His hand was still resting on the doorknob and Romano found himself gripping it tightly.

It was hard to breathe. He just swallowed his words and avoided looking at the bed, backing out with as much purpose as he'd barged in with. Romano found himself in the hall looking straight at Japan and the eastern country's face was surprisingly open for once, his mask poorly in place over the sadness and concern.

Romano just wanted to smack him. He just wanted to _blame_ him for leaving his brother behind.

"Call that potato-bastard and tell him that if he wants to eat, he better pick up more eggs on his way back here." Romano'd only expected to cook for three over the next few days, not five. "And make sure he brings me a fucking door!"

Pushing past Japan, the smaller nation didn't say anything. He looked like he wanted to, but he clearly thought better of it and stepped out of Romano's way. The Italian was almost at the end of the hall before he heard Japan mention something about finishing the stairs.

Fine. Whatever.

* * *

"You too?-!" Romano couldn't believe this, he'd planned for three, prepared for five, but when the German bastard showed up he had that dopey bastard Spain with him and that made six! "Fuck! You Axis Powers are like roaches!"

"Hey, that's mean, Roma~ You wanted me to join the war, didn't you?" Spain's voice was whiny and bright, which was irritating because Romano didn't want the bastard to be so stupid right now. But that thought just made him even angrier, because if the Tomato bastard started looking at him the same sorry way Japan _kept _looking at him then Romano was going to kick all of the stupid bastards out of his house!

"Is he..?" Germany's question was for Japan, not Romano. The shortest Axis Nation just quietly shook his head however, disappointing Germany and apparently sucking some of the life out of the brute. After Spain's comment none of them really tried talking to Romano; the blonde one _looked_ at him, but the Italian harshly turned his back and poured a fresh cup of coffee for the Holy See, the Micro-nation was still holed up in the bedroom.

Germany and Japan had arrived in Venice with Spain, they'd met him by accident at the train station but that hadn't stopped them from coming as a group, and getting lost along the way as that idiot Spain told it. Since then, Japan had been cleaning and Spain had opted to follow Kraut-breath off to find a new door in the off-chance that their paths might cross with Romano's.

Pissed off, Romano rinsed off cups, plates, and several sets of cutlery while the polenta cooked in a large pot. He'd brewed fresh (good) coffee with the old beans his brother had stowed in a cupboard, fried eggplant and eggs, and sliced tomatoes as he applauded himself for ordering more staple ingredients while he was out- there was almost no sugar left, but there was bread-dough resting with a cloth over it when the surprise guests came in.

"Fucking eat." Was all he had to say to his _'guests'. _Romano picked up Vatican's coffee and left the room.

"Have you eaten?" Was the first thing Vatican said to him, the next was a simple thank you for the coffee.

"No." And Veneziano hadn't moved. Romano was exhausted just looking at him.

"You're still soaking wet from the rain." Whatever, Romano's economy was doing just fine and a little rain wouldn't change that. "But his is in danger, go clean up and eat something." No. "Roma-"

"I _just..._" Just what? Just what did he want? Romano was standing next to the bed now, having wandered away from Vatican's chair and looking down at the pale, expressionless face below him. Shit, they looked a lot alike. Romano was always trying to deny it, but they both had Grandpa Rome's nose and their lips were shaped the same way Vatican's were- with a fuller bottom lip than top. Someone, probably Vatican, had given him a shave while Romano was out so he looked cleaner, but Veneziano's lips were always supposed to be quirked up in a smile the way Romano's were always drawn a little in a frown or scowl. Seeing his brother with nothing but scars on his face just wasn't right...

What did Romano want? He wanted him to wake up, he wanted this to stop, he wanted everything to go back to normal. He _just_-

"I just want to be near him."

Quiet for a few moments, only the sound of cutlery clicking against ceramic plates in the other room, maybe the low murmur of voices. Nothing loud, it hardly carried all the way in here over the dialled down voice of the radio. Romano slid his hand into Veneziano's, weaving his fingers between his brother's limp ones. Behind him, Vatican let out a breath through his nose- not quite a sigh but not strong enough to scold, and stood up. The chair squeaked against the floor and Romano felt the edge of the seat bump against the back of his knees.

"Then sit." ... He did. He kept his grip on his brother though, leaning down with his elbows on his knees and his hands wrapped around Veneziano's fingers and wrist, toying with the resin beads of the rosary coiled around his arm. At least he was breathing, Romano should have hoped for more than that, but...

He felt something heavy settle around his shoulders. Surprised, Romano found himself wrapped in a blanket- something Vatican had just pulled out of the closet.

"I'll bring you a plate." ...

... Say it.

"Thanks."

* * *

Romano ate in the bedroom and didn't say anything when Spain joined him, alright with having a warm hand on his shoulder the whole time. Apparently Germany and Japan were setting the furniture in order, dusting and moving tables, setting up chairs, and washing the windows so they could see the rain dumping down outside. Romano really didn't care, but he _did_ agree that Veneziano would feel better seeing his house looking lived-in than all wrapped up in sheets and plastic.

The new door was delivered by a pair of men who looked like twigs next to the potato-bastard. Romano only saw them because after he cleaned up he traded places with Japan so his brother wasn't left alone. He was in the middle of preparing their lunch when a new steel door and a gate to replace the old one were both dropped off.

A few lines of Grandpa Rome's old song came to mind as the German and the Spaniard settled down and got to work hanging the massive door. The Kraut made perfect sense of the instructions written specifically to bug the ever-living crap out any normal person, whereas Spain got fed up and just doodled over the pages whenever Germany stopped giving him direct instructions. Over on his end, while they worked on the door Romano ran the raw pasta through his brother's old hand-crank sheeter several times, flattening the yellow dough until it could be cut, filled with cheese and rolled up for cannelloni.

The dish was time-consuming and detail oriented. He had to get the blend of cheese and spinach right- which required prepping and cooking the leafy greens first. He had to make sure the sauce didn't reduce too far, find and wash all of the deep dishes before he could prep _those_ and actually start forming the pasta. Romano chased away Japan whenever the eastern nation came too close, and he gave Vatican a dirty glare when he was asked if there weren't simpler meals Romano could make instead.

"What the hell else am I supposed to do?" Was his blunt reply.

Yelling at Veneziano didn't have any effect on him, nor did shaking him or slapping him or splashing his face with cold water. He was completely unresponsive, and while Germany and Spain finished hanging the new door (Kraut finally explaining to him that the gun had damaged more than just the lock, so they couldn't have just installed a new one because the internal something-or-other was _blah-blah-blah_) and they were all exposed to the sound of Veneziano's radio giving constant reports about what was going on across the nation.

Cooking was... a distraction. It took long enough for him to assemble everything that Romano ended up slicing the bread he'd made earlier and letting the others eat that with cheese and cured meats for lunch, the pasta would be their dinner. While he was doing that the phone in Veneziano's office started ringing, and Romano ignored it.

Cooking was technical. You couldn't just slap-stick your way through a complicated recipe with so many different components. But if you over-thought it you'd ruin the dish, so you had to keep your head out of it just enough to use your actual senses: taste the filling, smell the sauce, listen as you stirred the pot, feel the texture of the dough. It was difficult and required constant attention, so he didn't answer the phone when it went off again: he didn't want to talk to Seborga yet.

If Romano was cooking, and if he glanced up and saw his brother's furniture all dusted and polished and set up in the flat just the way Veneziano liked it... And if Romano was too absorbed in what he was doing to really hear what Veneziano's friends were talking about... And if he only saw Vatican briefly and when he did the Micro-nation just looked annoyed at the commotion in the house... then Romano could, just maybe, pretend that nothing was wrong.

He wished Rome would stop calling. Shutting the office door only had so much impact.

"That smells amazing..." Prepared, assembled, baked and served. Japan snapped a picture of the pasta while Romano set out more dishes, finally clearing away the remains of lunch and desperate to sit down with some wine after all that work. The rain absolutely refused to let up outside, and they were all aware of how dark the world was growing beyond the clean windows. All day none of them had really noticed the sun, but now that it was gone the loss was obvious.

Bah, that sounded like a metaphor for something, Romano didn't want to think about it. When Veneziano's land-line went off for the third time the only other sound was the radio giving an update: a bomb had just exploded in the Milano underground. Three long, frantic rings from the telephone hanging on the kitchen wall answered that report, then it went silent.

"Where's that Potato-bastard?" Spain was in Veneziano's office making a call on his cell and Japan and Vatican had deferred their theological debate when Romano pulled the bubbling dish out of the oven so it could rest and be admired by the other two. Japan knew how to cook just fine, just not with these ingredients, and Vatican knew he had to be damned appreciative before Romano would let him so much as taste the sauce.

They all wisely ignored his response to the phone.

"Right here." Ah... shit. The look on the Potato-bastard's face told Romano what little he needed to know. Germany's wide potato-shaped face was stressed and upset, his blue eyes tense with red rims as he didn't meet Romano's gaze. North Italy _still_ wasn't...

"You gonna eat or not?" Romano said sharply, turning his attention back to the food and quickly breaking the cheesy crust that had formed over the top. Someone else was going to have to buy more food if these bastards were gonna stay here all night and tomorrow too. Romano wasn't going out again, not in that fucking rain. He dished five plates before Germany found his voice and spoke up.

"May I take some to him?" Huh? "He..." And then lost his words again, leaving Romano paused with the last few hot cannelloni rolls waiting to go on the plate in his hand. When he looked at the taller nation again, Germany's pain was poorly concealed and he was standing awkwardly, one hand up and hanging from the iron cross Romano hadn't noticed before. Germany wasn't dressed as casually as Spain's hoodie or Japan's jeans, but the dark green army jacket and khaki pants weren't the same strict uniform he'd worn during the fighting either. The cross was hanging from a chain and must have been tucked under his shirt earlier, but now he was holding it tight and rubbing his thumb over the black iron.

"Maybe... the smell?" Japan tried to fill the silence while Spain made his return and looked down at the plate Romano had already dished for him. Vatican's expression was hidden while the Oriental one seemed oddly hopeful, but before Romano could snap at either one for an explanation, Germany finished.

"He loves your food, he's always going on about it." He-? Veneziano _never _liked_- _"I just thought it might help, but perhaps I was just being foolish." He...

"You're all assholes." Vatican presented Romano with another plate as he swore and broke up the final portion. The Micro-nation then turned to kneel in front of the open cupboard in the kitchen's bar, peering in at the assortment of wines Veneziano kept there. Romano probably could have used a drink, something cheap, but he'd made a mess of the kitchen, and there was his brother to look after, and then-

"We'll take it." Huh? Romano felt the last plate rise right out of his hand as Japan took the two half-portions and scurried off, Germany following on his heels back toward the bedroom.

"Sit." Vatican was in front of him before Romano could try following the two former Axis powers, the grey-haired nation actually cutting him off back and forth as he tried stepping around him. Damn it!

"I'm not hungry."

"Sit. Down." Frustration, that tension in the back of his neck that hitched his shoulders up and made Romano just want to growl back at the Micro-nation. The wine was open on the counter and Vatican was pointing directly at the table where a plate of the food Romano had _just_ made was sitting, an empty wine-glass next to it. Behind him, he heard water running and dishes clattering as Spain stacked all the bowls and pans Romano had dirtied for washing, of all things _whistling_ over the sound of the radio.

Grumbling about how they were all bastards who should fucking eat the food he'd fucking made before it got fucking _cold..._ Romano let Vatican shadow him over to the table. He didn't want to sit down, and he swore softly as he was nudged into one of the wooden chairs and felt all the strength leach out of his body. His feet turned to lead weights and his knees were useless, and his spine just wanted to coil up like a rope and drop him to the floor. His shoulders slumped down as Romano unwillingly acknowledged how he'd been on his feet literally since he'd woken up. There had been that brief break when Vatican sat him down to eat breakfast and then shower, but after that...

"Assholes." Vatican poured him a glass of Veneziano's dark red wine. He may have had no idea how to bake bread or brew coffee, but Vatican's pallet for wines was not to be questioned. Spain joined them without finishing the washing, but he chirped something about hugging him into submission if Romano tried touching the dishes in the sink again.

"And after you're finished..." Vatican said, taking neat little bites out of his pasta as the three of them sat there, listening to the quiet drone of the radio and the rain tapping the windows. "You're going to call Rome."

"I am not."

"Tomorrow then."

"_No_." Those bastards in Rome just wanted to harass them and squawk about where Veneziano was and when he would start fixing all the shit going on across the country. He trusted Vatican to have passed on what he'd said about _not_ wanting to deal with them. "Besides, you guys aren't even gonna be here that long, why would I go back to work already?" Chewing his food like it had insulted him and ought to be punished, Romano drank his wine and told himself the warm feeling in his belly wasn't making him even _more_ tired. But Spain's green eyes came up when he made the comment, the Tomato-bastard giggling stupidly before he threaded his fingers under his chin and grinned at him, looking stupid all the while.

"You think Germany is leaving, Roma? Are you crazy?" No, just hopeful, damn it. "I spoke to Prussia before I came here and he was already convinced his brother wouldn't really go back to Berlin. Unless their boss calls him directly, I think you're as good as stuck with us." Romano almost flung a piece of his dinner at Spain's teasing face, almost, but his food was too fucking good for that.

He growled as he ate the offending morsel instead, understanding why the German Chancellor wasn't going to push unless it was necessary. When nations began feeling distressed as people, it could sometimes, but not always, backlash on the population. Usually it went the other way, in fact the opposite almost _never_ happened, but depending on how much the other nations had told their bosses then the situation in Italy was clearly unorthodox. Romano couldn't remember too many other incidents when something like this had happened, but any nation that ever saw a civil war invariably suffered the effects of compounding trauma: droughts, floods, famines, diseases and accidents galore.

The Italian famines and the return of the plague during the Thirty Year's War had _not_ been coincidence. Violence and arson were new, but given the circumstances...

"Well there's only one bed here and I'm not sharing with you jerks." Sleeping next Veneziano was fine, they were brothers and they did it all the time, but there was no room for Spain or Germany and Romano wasn't going to let Japan or Vatican crawl into bed with him- _hell no!_

"There's a floor, there're couches." Spain answered, not missing a beat as he poured himself some of the wine Vatican had opened. The Iberian nation gave a cheeky grin after sampling the bitter red- as if he knew anything about wine! "You know me, Romano, I can sleep anywhere!"

"I plan to stay at the Cathedral." Vatican cut in. "It has already been arranged."

Bastards.

"Poor Romano, you should just accept it." Accept what, you jerk? Romano gave Spain a dirty glare over the edge of his wine-glass, watching the Spaniard enjoy the last few bites of his dinner before he continued. "A lot of nations now owe everything to your brother, and we all know how badly we failed him in the end." Spain had only been caught in the mansion once, why was he-? "You were the only one who thought of going back there while the rest of us had the Journal and didn't even consider it."

"Yeah well you can feel bad at home then," Romano snapped, "I don't have the time to play host."

"You're so cute!Butno one's asking you to do that." Spain stood up smoothly, scooping up his plate and Vatican's empty one before he swept off to the kitchen, talking back over his shoulder. "You're already so stressed you're going as red as a Tomato, but your brother's still asleep. How will you handle him all on your own with all these new problems?"

"I... I'll figure something out!"

"Ve~ You sound just like Rome." Vatican's bitter, quiet words just helped sour Romano's mood a bit more, and he finished his wine and pasta with a firm grunt towards the Micro-nation. Why was he bringing Grandpa into this? "There is nothing to figure out. You have resources, use them. Your brothers are working in Rome like you asked, but it's your capitol, not theirs, and you said you would help if they called."

He knew that, damn it. He'd just expected those idiots to do better on the first day.

"You already asked for our help once, Roma!" Spain sang from the sink, cleaning up their dishes now as well as all the different pans and trays he'd left so they could eat. He wasn't looking over at the table, but the Spaniard picked his voice up high enough that it was easy to hear. "What's the harm in admitting you need a bit more?"

"I did no such thing, bastard, I never asked the UN for help." That had all been Switzerland's doing, and thank God it hadn't been to start a war. Russia was the only Nation he'd called, when Romano had a minute he'd have to thank him for taking sides; he only knew the dirty side of politics, but at least it had worked.

"That doesn't mean you didn't need it." Vatican insisted, "Switzerland had every reason to turn on you but instead he decided to help you in the end, and despite his _questionable_ methods, he succeeded." Questionable with regards to locking up a certain Enclave in Rome... Vatican topped off his wine without saying as much and Romano tried to push aside the politics. His head felt stuffed full of enough things that he didn't need international relations to get involved and drag him further down.

And why was it still so chilly in the apartment? Didn't these bastards know where the furnace was? They could stand to turn it on, damn it.

"There is no sense in being so stubborn," and Vatican was still _talking..._ "You should be thankful that your would-be enemies prefer to remain your friends."

_'Don't lecture me, old man...'_ Romano could feel his teeth grinding together as Vatican prattled on, careful not to bite the thin glass as he brought the wine back up for another sip.

"_A__rigatou gozaimashita_, Romano-san." _Arigawhatthefuck?_ Glancing over at the sound of Japan's voice, the soft-spoken nation was just stepping back into the living room, two empty plates in his hands which he calmly left with Spain before making his way over to the table. It was weird watching Japan bow to him, his hands held at his sides, brown eyes closed and a very faint smile on his pale round face. What was he looking so pleased about?

Had he-?

"Did anything happen?" Spain shut off the water once more and was the one to ask the question, Romano setting his wine-glass down quickly and half-rising out of his chair before Vatican held up a hand to keep him down. He wanted to argue, but instead Romano was treated with the bitter sense of disappointment as Japan completed his bow only to shake his head slowly in Spain's direction.

Meaning no, the food had not caused any kind of change in Veneziano...

"But..." So why was the Asian power still smiling? It wasn't a big grin and he didn't look especially cheerful, but Japan looked at him again and that small turn of his lips was still resting comfortably on his face. "But the atmosphere was changed. I know we are all worried, but I think that things will turn out alright now. He should be through the worst of it soon."

"While I'd prefer to be hopeful, what makes you so sure?" Vatican had turned in his chair enough to see Japan behind him, Romano's relative holding his wine-glass in one hand and swirling the contents lazily. But Japan, true to form, only smiled a little bit more as he answered.

"Because I remember what Italy said to Germany and I just before we escaped." Oh? And what had that been? "He said, _'I think this story will have a happy ending.'_ He said many other things too, but a happy ending is what I remember most." Happy endings...

"You bastards make no sense sometimes... " Romano was full and he was exhausted, he swallowed the last of his wine and held up a hand to stop Vatican from pouring any more for him. The Spaniard in the kitchen was drying off the dishes he'd just washed, a stupid grin on his face as he looked over at where Romano's head was resting on his hand now.

"You should sleep, Romano." Idiot.

He'd been asleep for at least two fucking days, but now he was too tired to say as much. Romano closed his eyes and lowered his head onto his arms after his plate was taken away, completely prepared to fall asleep exactly where he was. He could barely even hear the radio anymore, so he sincerely hoped that he only heard the name "Florence" because they'd won their last football match.

Romano was half-way into a dream about the World Cup by the time he heard muffled voices speaking someplace far, far away. A warm, heavy hand came down on his shoulder and Romano was jostled slightly, whoever it was not leaving him alone until Romano picked his head up. Spain again, damn that guy. So annoying.

"C'mon, your papa says its bedtime." Romano blinked and then kept his eyes open, hoping the green was sharp enough to show Spain just what he thought of that statement.

"Don't... say shit like that..." The bastard... Romano heard that annoying laugh and then felt Spain grab his arm and swing it over his shoulders, forcing Romano to stand up. His legs felt like pieces of driftwood, they wouldn't hold him up properly, but at least it didn't get to the point where he had to be _carried_ to bed. He half-walked through the apartment and kept Spain from seizing the opportunity to hoist him up like a kid again.

There were some voices, some talking. But Romano couldn't really hear what was said. He cared, just not enough to keep himself awake.

In the bedroom, someone turned down the blankets and Romano was allowed to drop onto the mattress. It was a pain to fight with his boots and get them off, but he managed it without help. He sank into the bed and someone else wound up pulling the blankets back up over him as Romano refused to open his eyes. He had the strength to squirm across the mattress and wrap his arms around the only other person in the room who mattered, but after that...

After that it was just warmth and his brother. What else was there to know?

* * *

**AN Removed**

**-Reposted September 18, 2012.**


	5. North American Rift

**Whole Playlist, Spirit Within, Toy Soldiers.**

**Alfred. Alfred Alfred Alfred. I'm putting this here at the top because Al's character in the next few chapters is going to piss off his fans. But no.**

**No. No. No.**

**This is not a fic where he's an ass so he can be an ass and everybody needs a villain so he's the villain- no. I read a bunch of headcanons and re-watched/played several chapters of HetaOni before going this route with him, so no. And the reactions from other characters aren't going to follow the typical "Oh I always knew you were a villain!" _No._ He's not the villain. There will be tension, but as far as I'm concerned there's no "villain" in this story.**

**So no.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

North American Rift

Canada held off for as long as he could, but only two weeks after returning to Ottawa he issued a travel advisory to his people regarding North Italy. After another week and another series of shootings and amateur bombings, he ordered his offices in Rome to put pressure on ex-pats and tourists to return home as soon as possible.

"There must be something we can do for them." Technically America and Canada were both on leave from their government duties, but for some reason that didn't stop them from discussing work. With September creeping by and bringing cooler weather with it, the brothers were walking together down Canada's side of the Saint Lawrence River. Ontario gravel crunched under their feet while New York state hovered in the distance across the water, Canada holding a red coffee mug in his hand while his twin carried a similar one embossed with a green crest.

"Rome hasn't released any official statements, so until they do it's out of our hands." America was right, but Canada still didn't like hearing it. Sipping his coffee as a brisk wind came rolling off the water, the northern twin stuck his free hand down into his jacket pocket, waiting for the cold to pass.

"I hate putting alerts on them, you know what this'll do to their economy..." Most people tended to visit Italy during the summer months, so at least they'd salvaged their high season before all of this had broken out. But still, in a word: it sucked.

"Well that's Europe for you: shitty economies all around." Canada blinked at his brother's statement, glancing over at America as his twin drank his coffee and stared out across the grey water.

"You don't sound too upset," Canada remarked.

"I'm not surprised, if that's what you mean." No, it wasn't what he meant. He meant America didn't seem upset. Expecting backlash and being upset by it were two different things. "Look, it's Europe, the EU will figure something out for Italy just like they did with Greece and Portugal." But this wasn't an economic bubble or trouble with the Euro, it was civil unrest that no two political analysts in or outside the nation could figure out a cause for. Separatists, nationalists, xenophobes, communists, neo-fascists, mafia- it was supposed to be South Italy who had issues with gangs subverting the laws and interfering with policies, not the North...

"Are you... really getting into that kind of mood again?" Canada asked, hesitant to broach the subject.

"What mood?"

Canada sipped his coffee so he didn't have to answer right away, cautious of the sharp tone America directed at him.

"An Isolationist mood." He mumbled, hoping the plastic would cover the sound.

"_Shit._" Before America could say it, Canada was already thinking it: he should have kept his mouth shut. His brother stormed three steps ahead of him and the Canadian stopped walking, mentally preparing himself for when America spun around and glared at him. "Don't start with this crap, Matt. Just because I don't think Europe's the shit like you do doesn't mean-"

"_Al, _that's not what I meant." Dragging out the 'L' in his brother's human name to try and calm him down, Canada lifted his free hand in a calming gesture. "You just seem agitated, that's all."

"Agitated," America repeated, not letting up with the glare. "The _fuck_ does that mean?"

"Please don't make me define it." As disappointed as he was with his brother's fierce reaction, Canada wasn't terribly surprised. "Look, if you don't wanna talk about it then lets just-"

"No." America turned and started walking away, leaving Canada to follow him. He'd been like this, touchy, irritable, and flighty, for weeks. He'd been this way ever since they'd come home and America had been forced to sit down and accept that _yes_, he had flown his plane straight into the ground in the closing minutes of their operation in Switzerland. "Just fuck you." He'd been so upset by it, so inflamed, so completely and irrationally pissed off that Canada hadn't even been able to mention England's involvement: America had convinced himself that Canada had shot him down instead of bothering to hear a word about the Englishman.

It wasn't a malicious shooting of course, but that was still the official story and the only one America was willing to accept. There was a report at the Pentagon detailing how Lt. Colonel Matthew Williams of the Canadian Armed Forces had shot the flagging F-16 fighter out of the air to keep it from crashing within the no-fly zone around the complex. That was how America rationalized his survival too: he'd survived because he was a Nation and he'd ejected just fine, if a little too late to remain conscious during his impromptu landing.

Canada could have forced the truth down his brother's throat, but at the moment there was no point. If he tried bringing up England in even the most tangential way then America would fly off the handle at him, not unlike how he'd reacted to the name "Italy" for weeks before Romano and Switzerland had called them into action. Canada could only read his brother so well before it all became a blur of wounded pride and sheer intolerance for the world across the Atlantic. He couldn't exactly blame him either: Canada was hesitant to make plans to visit Europe again, he'd rather go anywhere else or just stay home than consider it yet.

Maybe in the new year. Maybe later.

Maybe once he actually heard something from London or Rome...

"I'm sorry." No he wasn't, but you didn't grow up next to America without learning that it was better to just humble yourself rather than stick it out with him sometimes.

"And you should be." Even when he had to be an _ass_ about it... "I'm supposed to be able to _trust_ you, y'know?"

"Are you saying you don't?" Where was this coming from? Canada couldn't help but bristle a bit at the comment, he didn't like hearing things like that.

"I'm saying I worry sometimes." What? Why? "Nevermind." America just kept walking, in fact he even picked up his pace a little.

"Al!"

"_I said never-fucking-mind!_"

What... What the _hell_?

* * *

Prussia was in Berlin by the time September turned into October, checking in with his Boss before calling up his brother's cell to figure out what exactly was going on with Italy. It wasn't like West to stay out of the office for this long, so watching him spend a month outside of their borders was something for East to worry about.

"Asleep? Still?" Carrying his dinner into the living room (West wasn't there to make him eat at the table!) Prussia dropped onto his brother's couch with a can of beer under his arm and flicked the TV on with the remote, settling his food in his lap. He muted the voices on the screen and paid attention to the phone. He'd been on the phone all _day_ in his brother's office, but this call felt more important than the rest.

"_We just don't know what's wrong..."_ Well that was a pretty un-awesome thing for West to say, but Prussia didn't point that out. It was a rhetorical _'we don't know'_, not a literal one. _"Have you heard anything from Rome?"_

"Except for comments on a train-jacking near where you guys are, no, nothing." Although the school-shooting last week had been disturbing. The first few incidents hadn't been enough to make international news, but with the violence becoming more and more senseless in Italy it was beginning to generate an unhealthy amount of hype. "How's Romano holding up?"

He heard West take a long, rough breath on the other end of the line, a sign that his brother was probably looking around the apartment to make sure the Italian wasn't within ear-shot. Prussia cracked his beer open waiting for him to finish his check, and when he spoke up again West's voice was quiet.

"_It's killing him."_

"Cosa Nostra?" Economic numbers were buzzing by on the screen, Prussia only watching them with half an eye since they were following oil prices in the near east, not financial issues in the Euro-zone.

"_I've no idea. The only one he talks to is Vatican- even Spain's been getting the cold shoulder."_ Prussia stopped with a mouthful of beer and frowned at that, swallowing hard before answer.

"Is Spain around? Can I talk to him?" Prussia was going to be headed down there in a few days anyways, but it wouldn't hurt to touch base with his friend first.

"_He's out getting groceries."_

"Uh... Isn't Venice, like, sinking?" The TV wasn't showing it but Prussia had seen the pictures already. Weeks of constant rain pouring down on the city were forcing the water levels to rise. No one seemed to be panicking about it, but when you thought your neighbour might be the next psycho gunman you stopped worrying about the weather.

"_The water's high, but they've seen worse. It's still below the walk-ways."_ Yeah, but if the Aqua Alta or whatever that Venetian funky-tide-thing was called... _"That only lasts for a few hours, East. I've seen it myself."_ Yeah, well...

"It's one thing when you've got Italy standing there joking with you about it." He said, careful not to tread too heavily on the subject. "But if that water starts rising you should be prepared to move him."

"_Romano won't hear of it._"

"Well y'know what maybe Romano should-" woah, hold up, "hey, hey you guys have a radio going there, right?"

"_Uh, yes?"_

"Dude, West, put on an International channel."

"_What?_"

"BBC, EUX, anything, just do it." BBC would be West's best bet, that was who the news broadcaster on Prussia's screen was sourcing as he quickly hit the volume on his TV so he could hear instead of just read what was going on. Through the line he heard his brother moving through the apartment in Venice, and his voice telling Japan to change the radio. The broadcasts didn't sync up exactly, but-

"_...Wikileaks?"_

"All the way, bro." There it was in big bold letters scrolling across the screen:

_Canadian government condemns White House meddling; says affairs in Moscow are none of Washington's business. _

* * *

"If you're going to spy on me, America, at least have the decency not to let me catch you!"

"Catch me? I'm the one who caught _you-_"

Canada threw up his hands in outrage, yelling over his brother's accusations about consorting with Russia and- oh who the hell even knew! He hadn't been this mad at America since NAFTA- no! Something worse! Having his brother tap his _personal_ communications and track what his offices were doing while Canada himself was still on leave was just- just _no!_

"Caught me what, America? Caught me making dinner plans with Russia? Terrible communist dinner plans where we go dutch? _Da, Comrade! In Soviet Canada everyone pays for own meal!_" This was humiliating, this conversation was embarrassing and Canada just wanted to storm out of America's house with all the gusto he'd burst in with. Usually his nerve ran out before he actually made it over his brother's thresh-hold, but not tonight! "Fuck you, Al!"

"Was the Cold war just a _joke_ to you!"

"Is the Cold war not _over_ for you?" Canada shouted back, but not hard enough to make his brother sit down where he was standing, scowling over his desk at him. "For God's sake, Alfred, he's hosting the 2014 games, I hosted the 2010, we're both on a leave of absence and _I'm going to visit China in two weeks __**anyways!**_" He was going to be in Asia, he was already getting back to work and he had planned stops in both Seoul and Beijing for trade talks. Having Russia schedule the same talks at the same time, yes, was a planned move, but did it warrant _spying_ on him? No!

"Just calm down, will you?"

"My foreign affairs are none of your business!"

"_I said shut up!_" He almost bit his tongue just because of the volume his brother used, the sound of it hitting him almost like a blow. "You live on _my_ continent, you survive off _my_ influence, you sleep at night because _I_ keep you safe," America's voice was low and strong, building like thunder as something frightening sparked in his eyes. His shoulders were hitched up like he was getting ready to lunge across the desk like an animal, and Canada was too stunned by what he was hearing to mimic or flee from it. "That means you report to _me_ when you go off consorting with-"

"No." Too stunned to leave but not to speak, Canada didn't scream the word back at America, he just said it and let it hang between them. "No, I do not report to you, America." He couldn't believe this, he couldn't believe what he'd just heard and what he was about to- "I don't need your permission and I don't care about your approval. My travel plans are my business, my economic plans are my business, and my foreign relations are _all my business_. Isolate yourself all you want, brother, but don't try locking me in with you."

What happened to being humble?

What happened to just sticking it out?

What had Canada just done?

"...Get out."

"I was just leaving."

What was going _on?_

* * *

October wasn't even half gone, but Remembrance Day in Europe was still coming around much too soon for China's liking. He was seated in the long meeting room where himself, Canada, Korea, and Russia had been discussing business. The Beijing conference centre where they had scheduled the meeting was tastefully decorated, modern in design, and proudly built for such a small, but powerful, group of nations.

His guests were gone now, of course, and a staff member was clearing away the coffee cups Russia and Canada had sipped from, a fresh pot of hot tea now resting at China's elbow. He let the woman pour him some of the brew, his fingers woven under his chin as he just stared at the wall, not seeing much as the only other nation still with him shifted and made a funny noise.

"You okay?" Hong Kong asked, encouraging China to shake his head a little and get the cobwebs out of his old brain. "I thought the meeting went well..."

"It did," China answered, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket as the staffer poured Hong Kong a portion of tea before silently leaving. He offered a smoke to his little brother but it was waved off, China lighting his own and inhaling slowly. He tried not smoking in front of guests, but Hong Kong was his city again so he didn't consider it a breach of conduct.

"So... Are you gonna tell me?" He was thinking about it, but China wasn't sure yet. Things had changed after the mansion, but they were changing back. He had a better relationship with England's former lease, but they weren't as closely integrated yet as China might have liked. Hong Kong still had those great big eyebrows... "What's wrong?"

"America is behaving oddly." There, he'd said it. It was better for China to get it out of the way. Besides, Hong Kong was one of America's friends, Canada's too, and England's for that matter. "If he knows how friendly his brother is getting with Russia he should have been here to watch them."

"But this meeting had nothing to do with him..." True, but it had barely had anything to do with Hong Kong either. And besides:

"Has that ever stopped him?" Not on the world stage, not since the fifties. "Like I said, he's acting strange. We were all stressed after our escape, but I don't think he's getting any better."

"Do you think Canada can help him?" China shook his head, tapping ash off his cigarette before taking another drag, filling his lungs with industrial fumes and corrosive chemicals.

Sometimes, when the new world started running too fast, China missed opium.

But opium made him think of England. His thoughts kept heading back in that direction...

"No. America and his brother have always had a clear balance of power. Whenever America tries to control him Canada pushes back, and when Canada starts to fight America backs off." Whether it resulted in Canada hurrying to England for help, or jumping into World Wars to prove himself, or staying out of foreign conflicts just to prove that he could, relations between Ottawa and Washington usually only shifted between warm and cool: but they seemed to be headed in the latter direction right now.

"Is it really that bad if America isn't meddling?" Hong Kong didn't sound convinced. He usually didn't give away too much with his words, but he was tired after the meeting and this conversation was upsetting him- however much he didn't want to admit it.

"Italy's still in trouble," China answered cryptically, ignoring the uncomfortable pinch in his gut when he said it. "Anyone acting out of character is bad." America was blowing off UN meetings and, according to China's sources, NATO hadn't heard from him in weeks... "He might be threatening to isolate himself."

"Impossible." The super-power shrugged at the statement. "China, the world isn't what it was in the nineteenth century, or the mid twentieth; he can't just ignore Europe all of a sudden." America would find himself in messy affairs like Iraq if he did, but that only proved he'd done this before. He'd gone against the world, or at least carried on without it, "and- wait, you _do_ mean isolation from Europe, right? He can't cut Asia out of things, his economy-"

"Calm down, aru." Tapping out his cigarette, China picked up his tea for a sip. He felt calmer with the hot ceramic piece wrapped up in his fingers, tapping one foot under the table and watching the door again. "No, he's not trying to cut ties with us. His consumers would revolt, he'd rather chew off his own arm than go that far." But... "But it's an election year for him too."

"Please stop changing the subject..." He wasn't, China was just jumping across points rather than ploughing straight through them in order.

"His elections are never fun, you know that." Actually a lot of the time they were hilarious, until they just started getting sad and scary... And this year America had the memories of the mansion to deal with, it wasn't the usual mantra of struggling economy and domestic issues and military conquests. "Disturbed nations elect disturbed governments," and America had a lot to be upset about. China still wasn't used to having to call Venice just to get in touch with Japan; it was wearing down on him waiting for brighter news from Europe...

"Are you heading home?" Hong Kong asked the question as China stood up, the elder nation setting his cup back down next to the teapot, nodding as he gathered up the few files left over from the meeting.

"Your remembrance day is coming up soon, isn't it?" Not for another three weeks, but it was a full seven days sooner in Italy: they chose to remember on the fourth, not the eleventh. "I'm going to Venice."

"Venice?" Hong Kong hadn't expected that, he rarely gave things away on his blank face, but the shorter nation even let his big bushy brows rise up his smooth forehead. "I thought you'd say Rome."

"Rome will come after." The city hardly made a difference to China: Europe was Europe and Italy was Italy. "Keep an eye on America while I'm gone, but don't do anything to set him off. As you said, he's backing away from Europe, not Asia."

And until he could figure out what was going on and how best to approach the situation, China wanted it to stay that way.

* * *

It was still storming in Venice, but damn it, they needed him back in Rome...

"You'll call me."

"If anything changes, it's the first thing I'll do."

"If _anything_ changes. I don't care if he just yawns or rolls over, you fucking _call_ me."

"I will." It wasn't a request, this wasn't something Germany could just take lightly, he was _serious_- "Romano."

"What?" Romano was doing up his jacket and Prussia was standing in the kitchen washing the dishes from their breakfast- he'd joined them in the weeks since they'd holed themselves up in the apartment, relieving Spain who had hurried back to Madrid just before October ended.

Vatican was at the cathedral again and Japan was watching over Veneziano, because not once, in over a month and a half, had North Italy so much as twitched in his sleep while his people tore one another apart. Romano still shared the bed with his brother at night, staying close to make sure the North didn't suddenly stop breathing or wake up alone. But he just hadn't woken up, and now Romano had to _leave..._

Damn Seborga for sounding so damn serious over the phone. If the twerp had just blubbered and cried then Romano could have just ignored him and hung up, but to hear him actually get his shit together and shout at South Italy had been a whole other level of persuasion. If he hadn't felt so defeated from speaking to Seborga, Romano wouldn't have put up with listening to Germany right now:

"Romano, if I was going back to Berlin I would be making the same demands." Well Germany didn't _have_ to go back to fucking Berlin, because his boss knew how to handle things without West Germany following him around all day! "I know we don't get along, but the person Ita- _Veneziano_ will need to see most when he wakes up is you. If you think I'm going to hurt him just to spite you then-"

Then what? Romano was waiting for the rest of that sentence, watching Germany wrestle with himself like the big oaf hadn't thought through the entire threat before speaking. He didn't know what his own face was doing but Romano kept his breaths short and shallow, ignoring the burning around his eyes and telling himself he wasn't feeling flushed at all, it was just his imagination.

"Then... you're wrong." And that was probably the best answer Germany could have given him. Taking a deep breath, Romano lifted one hand and pointed at the blonde in front of him, a warning in his eyes as he kept his emotions in check.

"If he wakes up and you're not there, you bastard..."

"I will be."

"You'd better." He'd damn well better. "And you fucking-"

"-call you, yes, I will. Now go." Yes, go. Romano had to go. He turned and put his hand on the new door, ready to step out and... and he... _damn it..._

"He..." Damn it, damn it, damn it, Romano had to _leave_. "He has a fever." The last thing Veneziano needed, he had. He had a god-damned fever, he was getting _sick_ on top of everything else. His little brother was sick and now Romano had to turn his back on him and go to _work?_ "Keep an eye on it... please..."

Prussia shut the water off in the kitchen. Romano could practically feel them both watching him before the older German quickly left the room to find Japan. Germany himself didn't say anything though, not for a few moments, and Romano kept his eyes closed, reaching up to quickly brush away the frustrated tears that were clinging to his eyelashes. This couldn't be happening.

"How long has he...?"

"_I don't know..._" He hadn't felt it when he climbed into bed last night, but he'd been so tired again... He'd been putting all of his energy into trying to manage affairs in Rome from Veneziano's home office here, but it wasn't working. Last night all he'd known was that Veneziano wasn't awake and that his brother was still breathing, and that was all he'd really noticed: that and he was warm, so nice and so warm. It wasn't until Romano woke up that he realized just how _hot_ his brother was, his skin so dry but burning up at the same time. Nothing else had changed about him, but he was so sick...

"I'll fix it." Romano blurted the words out, made himself speak because crying wasn't going to do them any fucking good. "I'm going to Rome and I'm going to fix it, and then I'm coming straight back here!" No fucking crying! Man up! Shoulders back, head straight, he'd sort out this whole fucking mess in Rome and then he'd come back here and get his lazy-ass little brother out of bed! "So you fucking _call me_ if anything changes here, Kraut-breath!"

Hand on the doorknob, twist and pull to open it up. Romano didn't care if his voice filtered down the stairwell, he wanted to make sure the dumb blonde behind him heard what he had to say!

"I... I will..." Good!

"You fucking better! I'm leaving!" And he meant it this time, because if Romano didn't leave now he'd end up tearing back through the apartment and finding his little brother again. He'd done it three times already this morning; twice pretending he'd forgotten something and then again just to say good-bye. He wasn't going to do it again, and as Romano stepped out of the flat he made sure to slam the heavy-duty door behind him. He was satisfied with the boom that echoed down the dark stairs, the sound hiding his footsteps as he ran down the first flight, skipping stairs and holding the rail to keep himself from tumbling down and hurting himself.

"_Woah!"_

But it also meant he almost ran straight into Vatican who was climbing back _up_ to the apartment. The Micro-nation caught him with one hand before the both of them could go tumbling down to the second floor, Vatican muttering something close to a swear under his breath before Romano completely understood what had happened.

The stairwell was spinning... It was twisty and the stones were old, and in some places the plaster and concrete had worn away so it wasn't perfectly even, but...

"Romano?" But the stairs were really, really spinning...

Vatican wasn't pushing him but Romano still found himself with his back against the wall, his knees slowly lowering him down to the floor. Shit... He had to get out of here... He had to get to Rome and sort all of this shit out... Vatican was quiet but the world was ringing loudly in his ears.

Had to get out of here, had to leave, had to get to Rome. He had to abandon his little brother so he could _help_ his little brother but he had to get to Rome before he could help he-

"...How long have you had this fever?" Vatican's palm was pressed against his forehead, brushing Romano's dark bangs away from his eyes before the South reached up and buried his face in his own hands. Shit... Shit... no fucking crying... He couldn't show up in Rome if he was _crying_...

"Sh-shut up, you bastard..." Romano was flushed because he was stressed, Romano felt dizzy because this city stank of sewer water, Romano was weak-kneed because he kept running around doing shit for his brother... "I... I'm not sick." Veneziano was sick, Veneziano was the one in trouble. Why was that bastard always the one in danger?

"..." Was that all Vatican had to say? Shit, Romano had to go, he was gonna miss his train and he did _not_ want to walk from Venice to-

"Take this." Take what? Romano looked up and... An umbrella? It was nothing special: long and black with a hook for a handle. Rain was still dripping off the wooden tip, heavy beads of water clinging to the black nylon.

Romano took the umbrella and then felt Vatican get a grip on his elbow, the younger nation resisting slightly until he thought better of it: he _did_ need a bit of help standing up... The stairwell spun again, but his world was stabilized when Romano found himself looking at Vatican's hard brown eyes. His wrinkled, age-worn face looked as unruffled as ever, his perpetual grimace fixed in place as he watched Romano regain his balance. Vatican's fingers strayed to the silver crucifix hanging from its familiar place around his neck, Romano watching with a curious fascination.

He hadn't done it since he was very young, but, compulsively, Romano reached for the hanging signifier. He curled his finger around it and drew the silver up against his lips for a reverent kiss, touching it to his forehead before he let it fall again. Vatican's answer was to rest one hand on top of Romano's head, a silent blessing rather than a formal one.

"Please keep praying for him, Papa." The only change in Vatican's face was one grey brow rising over the other, his expression curious. Romano didn't take the words back.

"The _world_ is praying for him, Lovino." And again, where the _hell_ had Vatican heard his human name? "I reserve mine for the rest of Italy." He- he what? The rest of-? But that was...

"Fuck... these stupid tears..." Romano was not crying, and he was not sick.

"Go." He _was_ going, damn it! "If you need help, you call us." He... he would.

And he left.

* * *

**I SAID NO I'M NOT DESTROYING HIS CHARACTER I PROMISE. But welcome to my sub-plot, because I couldn't write all 12 HetaOni characters into one plot this time around, so we get two. ****  
**


	6. Pond Scum

**Spirit Within, Starvation, Mirage, Heart of Fire, Mockingbird.**

**For the people on Tumblr who've seen all my rants about how much I hated Alfred back in Final Loop, this and last chapter are _pretty much_ my revenge for all of that.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Pond Scum

"Have you considered going to visit Italy?"

"I have."

"Soon?"

"Sometime before the end of the month. The Italian day of Remembrance is on the fourth, isn't it?"

"I believe so, yes."

The only member of the twelve England had seen over the last two months was France. This didn't make him the only one England had spoken to however; Spain had called him once or twice, and Canada kept in touch via e-mail, and China had decided that it was nearly time for them all to meet up again now that they were getting back to work. But still; France was the only one England had actually seen since September.

"So... what do you think of the drama going on in that new world of theirs?"

"I'm not sure," England answered, annoyed with the constant chatter but not about to look up from the proposal France had travelled all the way from Paris to bring him. He could multi-task. "But Canada has already made it painfully clear that I'm to stay out of it." Circling another word in red and crossing out the following clause, he liked to pretend he didn't know why France kept visiting him, or why he hadn't settled for simply e-mailing the current set of documents to England's office in Westminster, but there was no point.

"Painfully?" The frog pushed, and from his seat behind his desk England gave him a sharp look.

They were not, in fact, in England's office in Westminster. They were in his three-story flat in London town, second floor, in his home office. The take-out containers from their lunch were packed up and ready for England's housekeeper to dispose of. France had only grudgingly admitting that while Arthur Kirkland himself couldn't cook to save his own life, England had adopted several border-line edible variations of foreign cuisine. England would have smashed his face in his curry when the bearded ape said as much, but he was sitting just out of reach and had cleaned up his portion a little too quickly for the words to really bite.

"Painfully." England repeated, nudging his glasses up his nose and looking back down at the proposal. It was nothing serious, just broadcasting rights for several of England's new television shows: provisions about dubbing versus subbing, who could distribute, and how much they had to pay. It was technical and boring, but also deeply rewarding on England's part.

'_Who's adopting whose culture now, Frog?'_ He had to try very hard not to cackle over the documents.

But France wasn't wondering about marketing rights right now, he was still waiting for England to elaborate on what was going on across the ponds with their former colonies. Realizing that they weren't going to get much more work done until this was settled, England pulled off his reading glasses and rolled his shoulders a little. France was slouching in his chair on the other side of the desk, his white jacket draped over the back of it while he wrinkled his blue shirt and tapped his leather shoes on the carpet. Fine.

"Canada has asked that I _not_ speak to America about the two of them."

"And what has America said?" England spread his hands over his desk, dropping his red pen in the process. The answer was nothing, and France was oddly quiet as he watched England's face for several moments, the island nation staring right back.

"What?" Why was France giving him that look?

"It's nothing." Liar. France's blue eyes were clouded, his lips pulled in slightly above the blonde whiskers of his beard. England took a breath to call him out when France spared him. "When was the last time you spoke to our friend Alfred?"

Now it was England's turn to purse his lips and not answer. The question hurt, not because France was being hurtful, but because the question itself was extremely unpleasant. Of all the ways he could have imagined the Mansion fiasco ending with regards to America, being ignored had never crossed his mind. Canada hadn't even left behind an explanation for why the two of them took off from Europe so quickly in September, and England's fingers froze every time he tried writing an e-mail demanding why.

He tried not to be too obvious about everything as he glanced over at Mint-Bunny curled up on her cushion by the window. Grey London light was filtering through the sheer white drapes and the heavy red curtains that framed them, his Familiar comfortable with her face buried in her paws, wings twitching over her green rump. France let him get away with the distraction, but only just.

"It's been two months, Arthur." Human names. France- _Francis_ wanted to use human names... Things were slowly getting back to normal, so hearing those names was becoming harder to handle.

"I'm aware of that." Two months of silence, after another month of silence, after several lost years spent killing and dying for one another inside a haunted mansion. It was not pleasant, and he did not want to have this conversation.

"Does he know you're feeling better?" Arthur doubted Alfred even knew he'd been ill, and said as much. "Here. Stand up for a moment." Arthur curled his hands up on his desk, knuckles pressed down on the thick wood.

"Why?" He demanded, cautiously watching Francis lift himself out of his chair and tug his shirt and trousers back in order, banishing wrinkles and in general looking far too pleased with himself. Arthur didn't make a move to sit or stand up. He was quite happy to remain where he was, thank you.

This was why Francis kept visiting him. Why else would someone in this day and age would cross a channel instead of simply faxing or e-mailing whatever it was they wanted to send?

"To show me how much you've improved, of course." Arthur snorted at the implication; he didn't need to display such things. He didn't know why he kept letting his housekeeper open the door when he knew the Frog was standing on the other side.

"Francis sit down, we have work to do." The sour blonde reached for his reading glasses again, ignoring the smirk shining down on him.

"_Angleterre~_"

"_Sit down_ or go back to Paris, Frog." He said, nearly adding that Francis could make up his mind while he was at it too: England or Arthur, which was it going to be? Arthur was in the middle of uncapping his pen again when Francis came hurrying around the desk at him and-

"_No!_"

"Come on, Arthur! You've been doing so well lately!" Every typical slur and name Arthur could think of ran over his lips as he pushed against the edge of his desk trying to get away. Despite the effort he failed to out-manoeuvre Francis' grasping reach and felt the uncomfortable tension twisting the back and body of his seat. Swearing violently, the Englishman reached to try and claw the stupid Frog's arm but- lacking both claws and the right range of motion, he found himself thrashing madly and staring up at the ceiling instead.

Rather, staring up at the ceiling and Francis' grinning face, the other nation displaying not the slightest regret at grabbing the wheelchair and tipping it back like Arthur was a sack of potatoes resting on a dolly. That he decided to run him around the room only added insult to injury.

"Greasy fop!"

"Caterpillar punk!" Stupid insult didn't even make any- "Oh, stop acting like a child!"

"This isn't funny!" Stop laughing at him! "Don't scold me like that you git! There's nothing funny about this! I ought to have you arrested!"

"Why, when you could just-?"

"What the _hell_ are you doing?"

The front of Arthur's wheelchair hit the floor so hard he was nearly pitched out of it. One of his feet found the floor and awkwardly braced his body until he could move back into his seat, a dull ache building in his hip from the minor but unexpected work.

"_Amerique!"_ Francis- France? He cheered the name and England found himself struggling to catch up, his mind spinning while the Frenchman spoke to the new Nation standing in the doorway. _"_What a surprise, we were just-"

"Get out." Gunshot.

A gunshot was the first thing he thought of. That was what it sounded like. England didn't say a word, or rather, he _hadn't _said a word, and that was why France stopped dead and was confused by the order. It didn't matter which side of the ocean you lived on: guests did not order guests out of the host's house.

But America was stern, and he was _there_, which had to count for something. He was standing in England's house, right outside his office door, wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit and tie. Was he well? He looked well, thank goodness, his cheeks held colour and his blue eyes were sharp behind the square frames of his glasses. Spine ram-rod straight and broad shoulders tucked neatly into the lines of the suit, he looked better than England could have hoped, given how they'd last seen each other.

He didn't look like he'd just stepped off a plane either; his clothes were pressed and his collar was straight and done up close over the hollow in his throat. He'd taken care of himself before coming here, he'd cleaned up, spruced up, he was wearing a _tie_ for god's sake. America didn't even have that groggy, miserable look in his blue eyes that always came from a trans-Atlantic flight, most importantly-

"Are you deaf, France? I said get out."

Most importantly, he was acting nothing like himself. England wasn't sure what to say when France turned and looked down at him, clearly asking whether or not England was going to stand for America's attitude in_ his_ house, but he didn't have an answer. His first reaction should have been to jump up and scream and holler at the American to mind his god-damned manners and remember his place. That was how England should have reacted, but instead he just glanced up at the other Nation and, before he could stop himself:

"Could you give us a moment, France?"

He couldn't read France's reaction and England could barely rationalize his own. Of course he wanted to talk to America, git, and of course he wanted to have this conversation _alone_ and without commentary. That couldn't be so hard for France to understand, had they not just been dancing around the thorny issue of correspondence? Yes. Exactly. That was exactly why England was letting this slide, and he expected France to do what he said without comment.

He did, however, catch the momentary twitch of the other Nation's brow and saw his lips pull apart just-so. His eyes raced over England's face before France broke out into his usual smile and gave an obnoxious laugh, _'oh-hon-hon'-_ing as he pulled a mysterious red rose from his sleeve and spun with a flourish to face America again. England didn't know why he was so relieved to have France's cooperation.

"Ah! I understand!" If only he wasn't such a drama-queen. "I shall leave you quarrelsome boys alone for the time being." Or maybe he was just a _clown._ "Perhaps I will brave the dreary London weather all on my own! Such is life!"

"Oh, just wait downstairs, you idiot!" England found his bark and used it, straightening his tie where he'd been tugging it loose during their negotiations before lunch. "We still have business, you can't worm your way out of those royalties!"

"He means royal _pains_, you know? Good to see you again, America." America didn't even smile back as France passed him, the super-power at least displaying the courtesy to step aside so France could exit without squeezing through the door.

As soon as he was out, America stepped inside and shut the door. The room was entirely too after that, but he couldn't figure out what to say to fill the sudden void. Two months. Two months since he'd almost died and England- no. One month of silence and trauma reading the journal in Bern followed by the near-death of the Nation in front of him, which had earned England the cold shoulder for the last two months from the beginning of September to now at the tail-end of October.

_'He's alive. He's alive, and he's well, and furthermore he's not like-'_ England finished the thought with a tense, uncomfortable feeling worming through his gut, like the curry from before had somehow upset his stomach instead of soothing his appetite. There was a strange look on the younger Nation's face, one that sent an uncharacteristically self-concious bolt down the Englishman's spine- or at least as much of it as he could feel. America wasn't just staring at him, he was dumbfounded by the seat England was trapped in.

As wheelchairs went England's was nothing special; lightweight and manoeuvrable, a simple black body with polished silver attachments. Rims were attached to the wheels so he could move himself around, and England took advantage of them now, coughing into one hand while the other spun him so he could turn and wheel back around towards his desk. He was lucky he had such a low desk at home; the one in Westminster was much too tall for the wheelchair and required he climb into his normal seat and back again. It was good exercise, but as England came to a sharp stop in his place behind the dark mahogany, he folded his hands in front of him and looked up expectantly, gesturing to the seat France had vacated.

"Won't you sit?" America didn't move. The only change was that he was looking at England's face now, not trying to stare through the desk at the chair.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He asked.

_'Three months of silence and that's the first thing you have to say?'_ England didn't know if he was upset or surprised, but instead of firing back with something he just folded his hands again and found himself trying to calm the American down. It might have helped if he'd been able to calm himself down first, but the butterflies wouldn't listen. Three months. Three months since the escape, and the shouting, and the everything that wasn't worth worrying about. He needed to forget all of that and just focus on now.

"Just some lingering paralysis, I suppose." He didn't know what tone to use in his answer, but-

"Lingering paralysis." -but if America's was any indication, he got it wrong. "From _what?"_ He was harsh with his words and England barely contained his wince with a shocked blink. America forced the words out, making the question rough and uncomfortable in the tense air. Why was he glaring like that?

"From... September?"

"You really did a number on yourself, huh, old man?" England stiffened at the condescending tone. As if sensing his distress, Mint-Bunny stirred over by the window and opened her eyes with a sleepy huff. America wasn't exactly being quiet, but this- no, something was wrong. "Always the exhibitionist and for no fucking reason, right?"

That felt like a slap.

"If you ask me it was worth it." But America wasn't asking him and England was fighting to keep his breathing under control. His temper wasn't rising the way he wanted it, he was upset but anger wasn't playing a big enough role in his reaction.

He could remember it perfectly, all England had to do was close his eyes and think back to that smoke-covered battlefield. He could hear as well as see the machines streaking through the sky with one in particular flying much too low and losing its balance as it wobbled back and forth in the air like a toy. He hadn't even known if he could reach that far, or use the same spell he remembered from one of the failed loops- it had killed him in his memories.

But he'd succeeded in reality.

"Well whatever. I'm not here to talk about this, I just didn't expect you to look so pathetic." _Pathetic_?

"Bold words for someone who just barged into my house." England snapped, brushing aside the shaken, miserable feelings creeping up at America's harsh dismissal and grabbing his anger by the throat. After three months of pining he wasn't going to oblige America by becoming '_pathetic'._ "If I recall you once elected a President who was _permanently_-"

"Don't talk about my bosses like you have any idea what that means!"

England _stared_. That was the most un-American thing he'd ever witnessed, his mind struggling to find a time or a place where nothing had erupted into _something_ just like that. Rage was not America's first weapon, he didn't raise his voice and bellow and scream at the first thing that upset him.

Yes, sometimes he came into people's houses and ordered them around- but not like he had with France. He didn't start off dangerous. First he would treat it like a joke, a yuck-yuck-good-time, and if that didn't work then he'd whine and look cute. Then he'd ask his friends why things weren't going his way- he may or may not listen to what they said, but only _then_ would he start to bully. And it would build slowly, bartering, arm-twisting, coercion, warnings- _then_ shouting.

"What's going on?" He said that too softly- speak up!

"_Shut up._"

"Why are you here?" It was safer than _'What the bloody hell is **wrong** with you?'._ America at least had the presence of mind, huffing and puffing as he was, to make eye-contact and point in England's direction.

Actually, America hadn't broken eye-contact since he'd established it. England found his hands resting back on the rims of his wheelchair, but he had no idea what he was supposed to do with them. His townhouse was tall, not wide or long, he had all of three other rooms on this floor to choose from before he'd have to brave a flight of stairs. And he wasn't going to _run away_ in his own house! Stop this!

"I'm here so you can tell Russia to back the fuck away from Canada."

"_What?_" He was here because... because of _that?_

"Or- better yet, you just yank that idiot back in line. Hang him by those apron strings of yours if you have to, just-"

"America!" England was aghast, because it was better than the throbbing hurt that hit him in the chest. That, he was here over _that: _his spat with_ Canada._ "A-apron strings? America what are you talking about? Canada's independent, I haven't had anything to do with his foreign policy since-"

"_Bullshit!"_ Stop this. No. This wasn't supposed to be their first conversation, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. "After me his biggest partners are all your Commonwealth trash!"

"America-!" He wasn't supposed to be yelled at. He wasn't supposed to be insulted- not like _this_ anyways. Bickering and banter was one thing, England's _Commonwealth_ was-

"Oh shut up! I didn't say you could speak!" No. NO. This was not how America was supposed to- "You own him, he's even still got your whore queen all over his-" NO!

"_Watch your mouth in my house!_" England slammed his hands on his desk as he screamed the words, rising to his full height without realizing it, and cramming the stiffness and pain in his limbs into a tiny little box to deal with later. "Russia? _Russia?_ You ignore me for two god-damned months after I saved your sorry ass, barge into my home, order away my friend, attack my family and insult my longest reigning monarch- _to bitch about RUSSIA?_"

"You didn't save-"

"GET OUT!" Idiot! Idiot! Idiot America and stupid, stupid England! "Get out before I throw you out!" As he shouted Mint-Bunny was in a huff and came to land right on the edge of England's desk, growling and flapping her wings aggressively. He could hear the bumping behind him as Tink woke up and started pushing her way out of her special drawer in the shelves, his magic growing stronger inside of him as he kept the heat burning in his belly.

No. NO. This was all wrong, this was the world on its head, this was everything England hadn't even conjured up in _nightmares_ of seeing America again. He forced away the part of his heart that was screaming, the one begging to understand why _this_ was how the chips had fallen. It made no sense, he hadn't wronged America, he honestly hadn't. Who'd attacked who outside the mansion because it was just so convenient? Who'd been ignored, and stared down, and disregarded for months? Who had saved _whose_ life at the cost of his own god-damned mobility?

"You're so damn proud you can't even see what's going on!" America shouted back, unphased by England's voice and not doing the smart thing and getting the _hell_ out of his house! He'd kill him, he swore to God if he could have walked past the desk he'd wrap his hands around that neck and- "You and I both know Russia getting close to my brother is bad news!"

"Sure- _in the fifties!_ Now grow up and get away from me!"

"I'm not gonna let that bastard use the mansion as an excuse to-"

"The mansion!" England cut him off, he wanted America out, he wanted him to _go away!_ "Don't act like you have any idea what that place did to us!" No idea, he didn't have a single god-damned _clue_.

"Canada-"

"Canada's the one who _invited _Russia to come with us!" Why did he have to talk about this? Why these words? England didn't care about the brothers' fight, not when everything _else_ was- "Where have you been? It isn't coercion, America, it's what happens when governments spend twenty years trying to make their nations talk to one another!" But this was the fight. Canada was the fight and England just couldn't stand it. They were both idiots, America for not recognizing that his brother had been close to Russia in _every single loop_, and England for not acknowledging from start to finish that America had never _once_ moved even an inch closer to him...

"_Tell him-!_"

"No! It's not coercion!" Like what America was trying to do. "It's not blackmail!" Like how that stare of his kept threatening England, the younger nation storming across the room at him so they were shouting face-to-face. So damned close but too impossibly far- "It's not torture, America, and you have no right to come in here demanding-!"

"Will you for _once_ just do what I tell you!" America slammed one hand down next to Mint-Bunny, and in the next instant his hand took England's tie and yanked it, _hard,_ in his direction.

England _hated_ his body's reaction.

As assaults went it was a love-tap, England did worse to France on a regular basis: yank on a tie, cuff the back of a head, kick a shin, get a grip around the neck and show that you _could_ squeeze if you wanted to. America was angry but not blind when he grabbed England, but his spine and his legs couldn't take the sudden shift. He wasn't supposed to be walking yet and the little box of pain in his mind exploded as his balance was ripped off centre.

He cried out as pain lanced his hip and shot down his thighs to burn in both knees, the arms that had been keeping him upright collapsing from the shock. He hoped his cry was angry enough to show how much he hated it, how involuntary the reaction was, but he knew it just sounded weak: one strangled, gasping cry and his legs gave out. He caught himself by slamming one elbow on the desk, but that and America's grip were the only things holding him up, the fire of his magic smothered by the sick nausea of unnatural pain.

"A-Arthur?" He had no right to use that name_-!_ "_Arthur!_"

England felt the tension around his neck vanish as America let go as quickly as he'd grabbed him, all hope of recovery shattered as he lost one of the only things keeping him steady before he could force his legs into position. He knocked his chin on the edge of the desk as the entire thing slid past him, his body crumpling to the floor as he gasped around the humiliating pain in his legs.

The office door swung open and French words and English shrieks cut through the ringing in his ears. England closed his eyes when he saw America's knee come down in front of him, a pair of hands on his shoulder and back.

_NO!_

"_Don't you touch me!_"

The pain was in his legs and he forced the strength back into his arms, one pushing him up while the other hand swept forward. England didn't even know what he was doing until hot red light flared around him, scoring the carpet and spiralling around his fingers. His chest was tight with rage and he shut out the fear the burning in his body was causing, letting himself sink fast into the flood of anger when his swipe missed America by a mile. The younger blonde toppled back with a shout and braced himself on both hands.

England didn't expect him to retaliate, so when his heel slammed into England's nose it sent the former empire reeling in pain. He shut his eyes again to block out the stars and flung a hand up over the hot spurt of blood that came out of his nose. His house-keeper's shrill voice reached a new level only to be undercut by France's loud, booming words:

"_Assez! America out! OUT! No! Shut up!"_

"_Brute! __**Scoundrel!**__ Scotland Yard will-!"_ Scotland Yard?

"America the police are coming," _no!_ No, no, n- "get out _now_ before it gets worse!" No, the police couldn't come here. They couldn't report this. They couldn't see England like this-

He kept his eyes closed and his hand over his mouth and nose, forcing himself to lay straight on the floor and not curl up as far as he could with his numb lower-body. The pain was fading to a dull ache, burning in his mind instead of splitting his flesh but- oh God, he was gasping. He couldn't breathe and when he tried he heard it come out like a sob, he was _sobbing_-!

No. No his pride couldn't take any more. Rejected and crippled and bleeding- tears were too much, he couldn't stand it, he couldn't be this way. America couldn't see him this way, he didn't deserve it, too many moments of weakness had been exposed for him to offer up any more! Anger, he had to get angry, had to make his lungs draw in hot, sweltering air in through his mouth and around the thick blood dribbling down his chin. He'd rather lay bleeding and enraged than sobbing and-

"_GET OUT!"_ He was proud of himself for that holler, putting all the heat and the anger he could force into the words and telling himself he felt the house shake for it.

"_Allez!_ Hurry! Get up and-" America didn't say anything, at least nothing England could make out as France's voice harried him and escaped down the stairs, vanishing out of earshot before the distant slam of the front door told him that both of them were gone. It was better this way.

At least it was better until the heat left him, the rage escaping through the wet streaks running down his cheeks. He felt cold and exhausted as the house fell quiet again, England only vaguely aware of the fact that his forehead was pressed down on the rough pills of his office's burnt and blood-stained carpet. He felt like dying...

"Mister Kirkland, please, sir, say something...!" He was alone now with the elderly Englishwoman who had taken care of his house and home for almost forty ears. An embroidered handkerchief was forced between his hand and face, aged fingers coming down through his hair as the weak bit of magic he'd summoned faded like everything else that had supported him. So he grabbed that soothing hand, he wanted to feel it wrapped up in his own, a touch-stone, a reminder of where he was.

"Heaven above, I haven't heard shouting like that since- well, sir, I can't even remember..." He didn't answer, he didn't want to speak. England didn't trust his mind or his heart or his voice right now. He just let her talk to him, the woman whose name he suddenly couldn't remember, the young maid who'd become an old matron while his face stayed the same and everything else changed completely.

Right now he was cold and he wanted this moment, not the one that had just passed. He didn't want all the dreams and the fantasies and the silly little things that had just shattered and blown up and crumbled right in front of him. The hand he wanted to feel belonged to one of his people, to a daughter of the Union Jack, to one of the millions to whom he was more than just a man and a name, more than a simple idea or a kind of feeling. He wanted to be here in his home with his child and forget absolutely everything else.

Because if he wasn't right here with her now, then he was there with the shouting. If England couldn't block out the memories then he had to remember all the times when he and America had screamed at one another like that, and he had to remember how things had ended in every, single, loop.

He had to remember never being able to get along with America when it really mattered. He was stuck with the memories of always bickering right before the Thing leapt out at them both. He was trapped in the paralyzing moment where they both realized they'd been blind-sided by sharp teeth and crushing hands.

England had to acknowledge that he'd died shouting at America too many times to count.

And Arthur Kirkland was left crying wretched, shameful tears into a bloody handkerchief, trying to remember _why_.

* * *

"Now, faster." France urged, nudging America down the dreary street away from England's residence. He kept checking back over his shoulder, already able to hear the sirens blaring in response to a frantic call England's house-keeper had made. France had tried to stop her, but no patriotic soul could just stand by while what sounded like a war began brewing upstairs with their Nation. She was a proud old matron, but they did not need an international incident right now. "_Move._"

"Stop that!" America tore his arm free of France's grip, the two of them stopping while the younger blonde spun to face him, anger fusing the cracks in his mask together while he glared. France wasn't impressed with the charade: he covered up the horror very well, but not perfectly. He was running scared and they both knew it.

"Explain what that was," France demanded, making sure his English was as blunt as possible. Now was not the time to hope America remembered his French roots. The youngster only evaded with his eyes, saying nothing and forcing France to point back in the direction they'd come and repeat: "Explain it to me! Put in words what you just did!"

"I don't answer to you!"

"Who else are you going to talk to?" France snapped, giving chase when America turned and started storming off down the lane again. Good, at least he was moving, but he wasn't going to get away. "Who else _have_ you spoken to? Not Canada, he's said as much. Not England because after three months apart you just _kicked him in the face!_" Not to say that France hadn't done worse in the past, but for god's sake he could have chosen a better time for it!

"He attacked me first!"

"Did he? _Explain._" He repeated, breathing down America's neck trying to get the younger nation to open up. "Speak! Say something! This silence isn't healthy and you-"

France didn't expect America to stop, pivot and slam his fist into his jaw, so there was no way he could stop it when it happened. There was a difference between being smacked by a "frenemy" like England and having a sore spot on your jaw, and taking a real punch like that one. France's mind exploded with red and in the next moment the European nation found himself half-collapsed against an iron fence, weakly clinging to the bars with one hand and trying to keep himself up off the wet pavement. His jaw was washed with pain and his teeth felt like they were humming in his skull, tingling and hot with blood from his tongue.

"Don't you _dare_ try and order me around! Just mind your own god-damned business!" France almost didn't hear America's words over the echo of what was probably his brain smashing against the inside of his skull, but he saw the stiff shoulders of an outraged world power as the boy-hero stormed away.

He had no idea what had just happened, but it was bad.

It was all very, very bad...

* * *

**Bringing stuff together next chapter, and by the way yes: England was tots signing rights agreements dealing with Doctor Who and Sherlock.**

**-Repost, September 18, 2012.**


	7. Confluence

**The Decision of Love, Vanity, Going Home and Season's End, Empty, Secret Door.**

**AN removed.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Confluence

In a word, life in the apartment was stifling.

Japan was uncomfortable with being left alone with the Vatican City State, but after being exposed to the man's absolutely terrible culinary skills it was decided that he would be in charge of meals. This seemed alright with Germany and Prussia, who were rather fond of his food already, but Italy's... relative-of-unspecified-degree, was incredibly intimidating to have hanging around the other side of the kitchen _watching_ him.

He enlisted Germany to bake bread, because despite the simplicity of the recipe Japan simply wasn't that fond of it, and without it Vatican might not eat at all. The smell wasn't much of a comfort to him, but the other three nations visibly relaxed with the fresh scent. Now if only their charge could have reacted the same way...

Prussia kept busy cleaning, which seemed odd given his personality but the east German was fidgety and had to do _something_. Since arriving he'd cleaned his gun twice before Vatican made him put it away, but shortly after that he'd found the rifle and pistol Romano had left behind after the Swiss mission and he'd played with those for a few hours. When Vatican made Prussia put _those_ away too, a massive cleaning effort had been called to order and Prussia had gravitated towards the large collection of silver and glassware Italy kept in the china cabinets in his living room.

Vatican himself, when he wasn't haunting the apartment watching Japan or watching Prussia, was either in the bedroom with Italy or he left to go down to the Cathedral across the canal. It only took a few days before Prussia wandered down to the church as well, and when he returned without the Holy See it was because Vatican was preaching.

"Not like annoying preaching, I mean good, solid, honest stuff." Japan was not a Christian nation. Some of his children subscribed to the western faith, but not enough to sway him spiritually in that direction. Still, there was no reason to be rude and Prussia, who had lost most of his faith after the Cold War, seemed humbled by whatever he'd heard. Vatican's pilgrimages continued, and Prussia took to escorting him across the water.

The apartment really was in such a lovely part of the city. It was right by the grand piazza and impressive sculptures spread out in front of the Cathedral, the entire square was usually visible right from Italy's balcony. Japan had only been here once or twice when touring the nation with his Axis friend, but they were memories he kept close. It saddened him to look out the windows and see nothing but heavy grey rain.

And Germany... Well, with Romano gone south and Vatican out for most of the day, the few weak barriers his friend had been able to prop up had completely dissolved. Germany had kept from shedding any tears or losing control of his voice in front of Romano. He had done absolutely anything to keep from showing just how much North Italy's condition hurt him before South Italy left for Rome. Japan hadn't quiet understood why this was the case, but then Prussia had explained it to him from a worthwhile perspective:

"Romano's a big brother, and I'm a big brother. So I can tell you that if _my_ brother went through the same level of hell as Italy, and then his dopey friend, who I never really liked that much to begin with, came over and started weeping around the house like a little girl, I'd either chase him away or straight up knock the shit out of him." It was worthwhile to hear Prussia out. "West is hurting, but he's got me for that. North is so far gone that South is all alone, so of course he wouldn't want someone else crying_ 'woe is me, my heart is breaking' _around him."

They were insightful, the things Prussia had to say. And more importantly, the _way_ he said them was what encouraged Japan to listen so closely. His own relationship with China was... complicated. As it was with Taiwan, and Hong Kong, and even Vietnam and the other South-east Asian states. Korea was the closest relative Japan could think of with whom he had a stable relationship, but even that was tense and uncomfortable at times. The prefectures did not look at Japan the same way South Italy and East Germany saw their younger brothers.

So listening to Prussia speak in such a low voice, and watching him sit on the floor of a Venetian apartment with mounds of silverware spread around him and a polishing rag in his hands... It was not the image of Germany's brother that Japan had grown accustomed to over the years.

"_Please wake up... please wake up... please wake..."_ And the image of Germany broken and weeping at Italy's bedside was something Japan also found alarming. His memories told him that in the final loop Italy had collapsed twice and left Germany haunted with worry. The first time he had woken up in a fragile state, and the second had heralded catastrophe, so what if the third...?

Japan knew that Vatican didn't understand why every time he left the apartment he came back to find the heavy door locked and bolted. None of them had explained to the Holy See why the front room was never left empty. The four of them together could have, quite easily, just all stayed together in Italy's bedroom even after Spain returned from Madrid, but they knew better. It was an anxiety that had no foundation in this world, but it haunted them all just the same.

If something attacked that door then there had to be someone there to alert the others. They couldn't afford to be caught unawares again. Vatican didn't understand and none of them had explained it, but that was just the way things were going to be. Until Italy woke up for the third time, there was no trusting the fates not to turn against them.

It had happened too many times in the past... too many times in the future...

* * *

It was a week after Romano left that Spain finally returned to the flat. He stayed for maybe three hours during which he had a long, sombre discussion with East about something, and then he sat with Germany in Italy's room before he left again for Rome. They didn't begrudge Spain's decision to go: someone had to be with South Italy, especially since there was nothing the rest of them could do for the Northern brother.

Italy's was a deep dreamless sleep. His fever wouldn't go down and his body never moved in the slightest, not even to shiver or pant as the heat in his flesh continued to rise. At least Germany knew from much experience that Italy wasn't prone to moving around very much when he slept anyways, he was sedentary that way, but no one was supposed so soundly when they were sick like this.

At the same time, if Italy had been moving then that would have meant he was only pretending to sleep, because he did that a lot too. Italy would lay down and close his eyes whenever he was bored or didn't want to take part in whatever discussion was going on, but if he was moving then he wasn't really sleeping.

It had taken Germany several years after the Second World War to realize that his stupid friend wasn't quiet as stupid as he'd always thought. If the world thought you weren't listening then they'd say and do all sorts of things right in front of you, and then it was up to you to decide what to do with that information later. Germany never knew what Italy did with what he heard, but if history was anything to go by then he usually just kept what he learned to himself...

"I love you..." but Italy wasn't pretending this time, "so I'm begging you, please wake up..." He wasn't pretending, and there was nothing for him to gain from it even if he was. There was no dazed smile on his face to show he was dreaming, there was no quiet murmur from his throat, and his eyes never moved behind closed lids.

October was half gone, and still nothing changed.

"I love you, I love you, I love you..." No matter how many times Germany said it, he wouldn't wake up. No matter what little kisses he tried using when they were alone, or promises he made, or bargains he tried to strike, nothing would reach him...

China was the one who, after he arrived through the rain, encouraged Germany to speak to him and to keep doing it in whatever language he could. Say some words in Italian, in German, in English, in Italian again. Germany kept promising and pledging even after Russia showed up, the stalwart nation working with the hardware in Italy's office until a properly secured hub was built so each of them could remain in contact with their governments. They weren't on vacation, this leave of absence wasn't meant to relax them, so it was a relief when Japan approved of the network and was able to speak to Tokyo face-to-face for the first time in weeks.

"I love you, I love you so much, so please just let me know you're still there..._"_

Almost two months after freeing Italy from the mansion, things still weren't getting any better.

Venice was flooding, it was official now: strange tides and weeks of stormy weather brought water up to flood the entrance of the building they were in. France and England showed up together and were wet up to their waists from wading across certain parts of the city, the Brit relying heavily on a cane and France's arm to slowly make it all the way up to the apartment. He was better than he'd been in September, but was still unsteady walking more than a few steps at a time. There was a strange bruise on England's face that Germany had to assume was France's fault, because the pair wouldn't discuss it.

Either way, it was dangerous to go out now, more so than before. If you weren't a local then it was difficult enough to steer a boat through the canals, in a storm it was treacherous, and when the city was filling with debris it was a nightmare.

The news filtering through the radio wasn't very encouraging either. Romano's soldiers were everywhere now, trying to keep the peace, and if they added any more patrols it would take a turn towards complete martial law in the north. For the few hours Germany left Italy's side each day he would come out to the living room and see Japan standing by the closed patio entrance, watching the patrol boats go by in the downpour. The air waves and internet were filled with the President's voice, or the Italian Prime Minister's, or other ministers and clerks and representatives of Italy's government.

Venice was recognized as a state emergency and the shooter in Turin still hadn't been caught. There had been a lot of shootings these past few weeks...

"My god you do look terrible..." England didn't intend for anyone but Italy to hear those words, it was Germany's bad timing that brought him into the bedroom while the Englishman was sitting there keeping watch. He felt bad for intruding and England looked embarrassed for having spoken, but then the stilted moment passed and the former Empire turned back to look at the bed. He was still wearing his jacket, his hat speckled with rain from outside and his cane in one hand. France had pushed the chair all the way up to the edge of the bed before stepping out, so England's free hand was gently holding Italy's left wrist, his fingers grazing the rosary beads that still remained in place around the Italian's healing arm. There was no rule against touching Italy as he slept, and England wasn't stepping on any toes by spending a private moment alone with him.

Italy did look terrible though. His hair was longer now than it had been before they'd entered the mansion for the first time; a slow, progressive change over the course of several loops, but there was no denying that the dark red bangs framing his face now stretched all the way to his chin instead of hanging around his ears. Cutting it was an idea they'd shared as friends, but no one had the courage to act on it; only the Vatican felt comfortable enough bringing a blade to Italy's skin to shave him every morning, and he only did that because he knew Italy absolutely hated having the red hairs scrape and scratch his throat.

There were downsides to keeping him clean-shaven like that though, and that was what England remarked on. Italy's skin was unnaturally pale now, his olive complexion looked more like dusty grey paper and had completely lost the healthy, sun-drenched glow it was supposed to have. And the scars...There were so many tiny scars hiding along the contours of his face, had they always been there?Everyone had scars, but... but those looked like _bite marks _around his mouth and behind his ear, little white marks forming semi-circles where flesh had crunched and bruised and bled.

The worst of the scars were hidden by the blankets and the clothes Vatican changed him in and out of every day. Germany had only seen some of them, the sealed knife-wound on Italy's thigh, the long gouge that had been cut into and healed along the length of his calf. There were pink slices and gouges and punctures across his chest, and his hands were covered in nicks and scars, but at least they were closed wounds. The minor injuries he'd sustained during the rescue had healed the way a Nation would expect, and it gave them hope.

But...

From shoulder to fingertips they kept Italy's left arm bound up with gauze and medical tape- and by they he meant China, who seemed to take the greatest responsibility for what had happened. The limb had been so abused by the mansion that they weren't sure how long it would be until Italy could use it again. The bullet wound under his shoulder from the rescue was resisting the Nation's ability to heal quickly and efficiently, but it was nothing like the butchery lower down the arm. Like the bullet wound England had dealt with after their rescue, Italy had been human when his forearm was carved open from wrist to elbow, crudely healed with magic, and then ripped open again to retrieve the foreign object he'd buried inside. It was terrifying to see one of their own injured this way, but it had been worse when they'd lived it. It had been unbearable when they'd _needed_ him to go through it all for their sake...

Italy wasn't human anymore. He was covered in scars, but their bodies didn't carry those the same way humans many would remain once Veneziano actually started healing? He... He _would_ heal, of course, he had to. But what were they supposed to do about that gruesome wound?

A few days later England proved to be the one who best kept his head whenever the arm came up in conversation. He was a very blunt man, something that Germany found almost refreshing in the suffocating quiet of the apartment, and he told them flatly to call a human doctor to come in and examine the limb for them. They all knew that it was mending, but once he'd recovered England was certain Italy's natural healing abilities would return, it would just take time.

"Two weeks ago I could barely stand up, but on Monday I somehow trekked across this death-trap of a city with nothing but a cane and a frog for balance." England was also very upfront about his disability, but Germany could remember him behaving the same way about his blindness in the final loop, and all the other loops too. The former British Empire had his faults, but anxiety was not one of them. "My shoulder healed slowly, but a human wouldn't have been able to use it the way I was back in September and now it's fine." Fine was a relative term, but while it was clear that England was still in pain when he tried walking too much around the apartment, his shoulder hadn't required nearly as much care and recovery time as a human's would have.

Contacting Romano brought a state doctor and two Italian guards to the apartment for the day. He had been a nervous, fidgety man however and the officers keeping him safe had been particularly on edge. Only the Vatican was allowed to stay in the bedroom while the doctor was present, and he left a few hours later grumbling about how the Nation should have been in a hospital bed surrounded by nurses and officers, not a grungy apartment filled with foreigners.

It was the first time in almost fifty years that Germany had been targeted as a "foreigner" in Italy's home. That didn't make it any less true, but it felt easier to be upset over him calling the flat 'grungy' than to analyze the hostility they all felt before the humans left. They all suffered with that that negativity in intense silence for the rest of the afternoon.

Meanwhile, France had comfortably taken over cooking for the group, and when Canada arrived things started getting cramped, but they persisted. Now that almost all of the original ten were here no one was willing to consider leaving again. Foreign or not, they wanted to be here.

They all slept in the living room, except for Vatican, who departed every night to stay in the cathedral across the canals (the piazza had sunk in the flood-waters, but he still insisted on going to the church and Prussia continued to help him) and Germany, who stayed in Italy's room.

It was a sad, dreary atmosphere, but that was how they lived...

* * *

"Jeeze, you look even worse than I feel..."

"Sh-shut up, damn it..." It was pitch black out and Romano was fucking freezing. It'd been bad enough inside but now that he was standing outside the Italian Parliament in Rome, he could feel the early November air cutting straight through the multiple layers he was wearing. He'd been back in Rome for a month, and he was only feeling _worse_...

His fever was bad and he'd started aching already. He'd been sitting in his office for hours before now, dressed too warm for the autumn with two shirts, a sweater and his jacket, but he still felt like he was freezing. Walking out with Seborga just sent his teeth chattering while his little brother kept a firm grip on his arm. Romano could walk down stairs just fucking fine on his own, but the adolescent principality wasn't so convinced.

"You want me to bring the car around?" _Ass._

"I can _fucking _walk." But Seborga didn't let go of his arm, and Romano stopped trying to shake him off, it was too much effort. "I thought you sa- _chigi!_" Oh _shit._

Romano put his foot wrong, or his weight just didn't go right, and suddenly he dropped. He didn't go tumbling down the concrete steps to a bruised and bleeding conclusion, but Seborga came down with him as the elder brother slammed his tailbone on the step under them. His legs went funny from the impact and his cough decided to reassert itself at that precise moment, stopping him from swearing or fumbling to get back up as he covered the coughs with one hand and threw down his briefcase next to him, pissed off.

"A-Are you okay!" Ow, fuck, yes. He was fine, and he'd be better if Seborga would let go of his arm. "J-just stay down for a minute, are you sure you're-?"

"Stop worrying so much, damn it! It's a cold not the fucking plague-" oh _fuck._ "...Why the hell are you crying, you bastard?" This was everything Romano did not need right now.

"I-I'm not crying." Liar. Seborga was crouched on the step next to Romano, his arms still wrapped around the older one's elbow while the lights from the front of the building made the tear-tracks down his cheek light up. He had his light head bowed, but it wasn't doing him any good. "But you're okay? You're not hurt?"

"... Sit down, damn it." The concrete was cold and bumpy but South Italy stretched his legs out a little, tugging his arm free at last as Seborga sat down next to him and dropped his head down on Romano's shoulder. Wrapping his arm around the teen's shoulders, he gave a sigh and let his sibling just stay like that, not saying anything when he heard a few sniffles coming from the Micro-nation.

"Y-Your fever's really bad..."

"Well, it's cold out so be thankful for the heat." Seborga hugged him around the waist and Romano closed his eyes, keeping his arm where it was. It was cold out but this street was quiet, the city lights making it impossible to see the stars despite the clear black sky. It wasn't terrible to spend a moment out here, and there was no one to harass them to get a move n either. Waiting with more patience than he thought he had, Romano finally found the time to ask something he'd been wondering on and off all day: "You aren't feeling sick, are you?"

"No," came the dreary reply. "No I'm alright, I'm too small to catch whatever's wrong."

"I'm not surprised..." Micro-nations. Either they were small enough to avoid economic troubles or not big enough to survive them.

"You can't find the problem either, can you?" It was wise of his little brother to say those words _so_ quietly, or else Romano would have been obligated to shove him down the rest of the steps. Rubbing his face with his free hand, South Italy grumbled to himself before answering.

"It's not imports," he grumbled, and then Romano felt the whole list come tumbling out: "It's not exports. It's not taxes. It's not the budget. It's not mafia. It's not the Euro-crisis. It's not any of the things it should be." It wasn't even foreign investment that was dragging his health down the drain. Yes, people were terrified of investing in Italy right now, and even inside the country Romano didn't blame his people, north or south, for being sketchy about buying anything but the essentials until things calmed the hell down, but those weren't answers. He had the fever from severe inflation and the rattle in his chest that came from devalued currency, his pulse was erratic with export values and if he could stop sweating oil prices for _one god-damned minute_ then maybe he could think straight...

But it wasn't inflation or currency or exports or oil prices making him sick. It felt like economic trouble, but Romano couldn't _find _the financial problem...

"That's why I called you..." Seborga whispered, and Romano glared down at his brother's pale head in the dark, critical of that quiet little voice he was using. "I... I'm sorry, I know you'd rather be in Venice, but-"

"Just shut up, will you?" Romano grumbled, closing his eyes and letting his hand creep up until he was brushing his fingers through his brother's hair, calming him down as he curled the sun-bleached strands back behind his ear. "I'd rather be anywhere I can make a difference. So stop babbling and just call that Spanish bastard to come pick us up."

He knew. Romano knew before he even committed to the words that Seborga wouldn't let him get away with them. The silence stretched for a moment between them, but he felt the Micro-nation stiffen next to him, the adolescent sitting up a little bit and staring down the stone steps towards the street. South Italy resisted when he pulled away however, and his sibling stopped trying to separate and stand up.

He expected Seborga to do more than just stare at him with those big green eyes of his. They'd driven here this morning in Romano's car, and it was parked in the secure underground lot reserved for government employees. But it was a long walk to get down there, and now that he was sitting and had his weight resting heavily on his brother... well...

"You... you can't walk, can you?" Hmph. Leave it to the brat to make it sound so serious. The pain in Romano's gut was... managable. "You're shaking..." Romano huffed at him, or at least he tried to.

"Call Spain."

* * *

"When he wakes up all hell's gonna break loose, isn't it?" When America arrived on his own on November 1st, the temperature in the apartment shot up by at least five degrees. Germany noticed how it stayed there, and coming so close to the Italian memorial day, it was unpleasant. The apartment was too small for this much tension.

America couldn't sit too close to England before the strain of their spoiled relationship drove either Canada or France (or both), to quickly get in the way, and even then they usually removed England from the room and not America. To make matters worse, if Canada sat too close to Russia then both super-powers would begin to glower at one another from across the room, even if Russia's boldest act at any time was simply to strike up a conversation or offer to refill whatever Canada was drinking. It was a miserable situation, and although China seemed apt at getting in-between the former rivals and diffusing the situation, the stress between them all was beginning to poison the air.

For himself, Germany came close to asking America to just leave- but that would have been the wrong thing to do. At least it felt wrong, the first few times he thought of it. When America finally made his comment in the living room two days after he'd arrived, the German found himself listening closely. Why would things get worse when Italy woke up? Wouldn't that be a sign that everything was finally going to begin calming down?

The Vatican state was with Italy now, Germany had only left the room for long enough to shower, change, and eat the fresh bread and soup France had prepared for them. The rain was still pounding, and the radio was still murmuring quietly behind them, but no one was talking anymore. Japan was the only one who looked like he had something to say, the lot of them staring at America where he was leaning against the patio door, hands in his jean pockets and staring out the window into the rain.

"What makes you say that?" Prussia asked the question, and Germany waited to hear the answer, but instead of giving it to them the tall, stern-faced youth at the window just turned his gaze on the quiet nation sitting on one of Italy's decorated couches. Japan looked embarrassed for a moment, lowering his wide eyes down to the floor and stirring the remaining mouthfuls of soup sitting in his bowl. Attention was split between the two, but China was focused on his relative's silence.

It took two false starts, then Japan said:

"Italy will panic." The words were quiet and reserved. The older nation looked like he was in pain trying to bring the explanation to life, his lips hardly moving as he breathed the words out. "When he wakes up, and when the reality of what his people are doing hits him, he will flee to the nearest disaster and not come back." Not come back...? "He will not be himself. He will return, but not before..." Japan ended his explanation by pushing his spoon into his mouth, making himself chew and swallow the hot vegetables and broth very slowly.

A very dark, very heavy silence settled over the nine of them after that. England excused himself to go make a call to his boss in London. Canada wandered into Italy's studio only to be followed a moment later by Russia, and for once America let the two go without glaring any more than he had to. Germany watched Prussia clear away the dishes before France raided the wine-rack for a bottle to sooth his nerves, pulling a beer out of the fridge for Prussia while he worked. China decided he was going to go sit with Italy for a bit, and Germany just looked between America and Japan, wondering why he knew what they were talking about but couldn't name it.

"E-Excuse me..." Japan rose from his seat and quickly vanished to the back of the flat, apparently more willing to seclude himself with China and the Catholic father than remain near the rest of them. With no one else to approach while France and Prussia started chatting in the kitchen, Germany swallowed the reservations he felt and cautiously approached America.

The young super-power was always quick to jump the gun, always a little rowdy, and always a little bit dangerous. That was just what happened when you gained too much power too quickly: it was how America coped with not really knowing what to do with so much wealth and influence. But this wasn't the first time in America's short history that he'd been hostile towards the rest of the world. It was just awkward because world politics were so much different now from what they'd been in the 1920s...

America's posture told Germany that he didn't want to talk. Hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders twisted as he leaned against the door, he had that same perpetual scowl on his face that he'd worn during the readings back in Bern. His breath was misting the glass panes set in the stained wood, America's reflection partially visible as the daylight died outside. The rain wouldn't stop and he was watching it like there was nothing else he'd rather do.

"After the war..." Germany's least favourite memories, the years he wished had just never happened.

"I was with him." At least America knew what Germany was trying to talk to him about. The super-power kept his voice down and his eyes focused outside, refusing to look at him and acknowledge the tender subject they were treading on. "I captured him just after the second strike. He was out for... six days. Stone cold and dead to the world."

"...We'd never seen anything like it." No one had ever been _hit_ by anything like it, let alone twice...

"He woke up when his Emperor surrendered over the radio." America was speaking but he didn't want to talk- this wasn't a conversation. Not yet. Maybe not at all. "I expected him to keep laying there silently, or sit up and say something conceited to me. Instead he just started screaming." Germany could... hardly imagine what that would look or sound like. By the time Japan had fallen to the Allies Germany had had his own problems to deal with, his own torment. But he still knew what had happened.

"The bombs, and half of Tokyo was-"

"So Italy's gonna freak out, alright?" No, this wasn't a conversation. America's firm stare told Germany not to say anything, not to talk, not to make any points or observations. He'd been patronizing before while staring out the window, now he was down right threatening with all of his attention focused on Germany. "Psycho shooters and random bombs all over the fucking place- just be ready for it. He's not gonna wake up laughing and asking about pasta, the little idiot's already gone way off the deep end."

He knew better. Germany really, truly knew better, but not only did America's last comment surprise him, it made him angry. He just stood there as the youngster in front of him, the _child_ in front of him, brushed Germany off and stepped around him, headed for the kitchen. He called for a beer from France and Prussia complied, Germany staring after the blonde upstart with a violent heat in his stomach, a red flush burning his face and neck.

How dare America patronize him like that? Defence mechanism or no, this attitude had to go and Germany found himself struggling not to snap back with something. In Italy's house too, in Veneziano's house, eating his food, and upsetting his closest friends. How _dare_ America say something so careless to him? _'The little idiot's gone way off the deep end,'_? Yes, of course he had, because the nine of them had _left him behind-!_

"You're deluding yourself," Germany barked, and he watched the younger nation freeze up as the words hit him. It was nasty and it would just cause trouble, but Germany couldn't help his sudden temper as America turned sharply on his heel to face him again, glaring with wild blue eyes. Prussia looked surprised and then suddenly clued in, France staring with an unreadable expression as East gestured desperately behind America's back for West to stop talking.

_No._

"What the hell're you-?"

"I'm saying that you're being petulant and it's annoying, and I don't know why no one else has set you straight yet." Prussia was pleading with him but Germany stopped paying attention to his older brother, focusing on the arrogant nation in front of him. "You couldn't stop England from almost killing himself to protect you, and you can't stop Canada from doing what he wants, and you're not in control of what's going on anymore. None of us are, now _get over it_." It took a minute, it took a very _long_ minute, for those words to click in the American's head.

"Who the _hell_ do you think_**-!**_"

And it all stormed downhill from there.

* * *

**AN removed.**

**-Reposted September 18, 2012.**


	8. Dismissal

**Lost in Paradise, Secret Door.**

**AN removed.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Dismissal

"I don't know much about painting..." Canada admitted quietly, suddenly awkward with having run off to a room that was too cluttered to move around in properly. Italy's studio was... well-used.

"He's very good."

The first thing Canada saw whenever he entered the studio were the stacks of framed canvases that were piled up along the wall right next to the door. He'd never been to Italy's private residence before, so it had been a surprise to see them all. Most were still attached to their wooden frames, surfaces pulled tight for paint and charcoal and whatever else Italy was using to draw on them. But there were even more that had been taken off the frames, warped beauties stacked on shelves or discarded on the floor, old boot-marks showing how little their creator seemed to think of them.

The floor was a complete mess. An old drop-cloth that could have been there since the war half-covered the same dark wood that ran throughout the apartment. Paint had spilled, dripped, splashed, and splattered all over the dingy grey boards. Acrylic, oil, and water colours made it sticky in places and stiff in others. Bits of plaster, wood, clay, string, and stone were constantly underfoot, making it even harder to walk past the three large tables without knocking something over. The air smelt like plaster and paint and dust- it felt like the place where things were created and brought to life.

Studio was a clean word, workshop was more apt. This felt active, not studious.

A potter's wheel, two easels, a carving block and a pedestal, there were five pieces of unfinished art, one for each station, and then there were plenty more left on the tables all on their way to the stacks that hedged the work-space. There were books open everywhere- art books mostly. Walking cautiously through the clutter, Canada saw books written in German, French, English, even-

"He can read Cyrillic?" That certainly _looked_ like the script Russia and his sisters used...

"I wouldn't be surprised, he still remembers Ancient Greek." Seriously? "Da. Some say when he was very small his grandfather brought Greece's mother to teach him sculpting." Italy was so old, it was hard to remember sometimes. "In war he behaves like a child, in everything else..." In everything else, he could be brilliant...

"I think this is mine?" Canada was surprised when another image caught his eye, the blonde carefully approaching one of the tables where- yes, that was definitely Native Canadian artwork: the west coast raven had its wings spread over two pages of a book in front of the carving block. "This-! He's mimicking me!" That, that had to be a compliment, right?

The piece Italy had been working on was a bird in flight. The fact that he'd attempted to carve the animal with its wings spread, talons reaching out and spine bent was ambitious enough, but to do so out of wood seemed that much harder. At this point, very little of the animal had revealed itself from the material- only the sketches resting next to the book told Canada what Italy had been envisioning, his tools still tossed down in a mess- one of the chisels was even sitting on the floor.

"Oh, I get it..." Russia came up next to him and Canada edged over so the other nation could see the book and the drawings, Ivan's hand coming down gently on his back as his violet eyes appraised the art in front of them. "Mimicking, yes. You see where the ellipses will go around the eyes? He wants to use the symbols of Canadian artwork in European sculpture... a bird, very ambitious."

"You said he knows stone, why is he using wood?" It would probably be much easier to work in stone... Approaching the bird again, Canada reached a hand back towards Russia and let their fingers link together warmly. The bird though, it was emerging from a block of yellow wood- soft, something that had clearly been irritating the carver.

So many little details- only the right wing was revealed and yet Canada could see the sections of feather and sinew that Italy had already tried to detail. But wood was soft, it was fibrous: millions of tiny strands all woven together to form a solid. Italy either didn't have the tools or the skills needed to shave the wood down the way he wanted it. He'd succeeded with the top side of the wing, but as soon as Canada crouched a little to see under it- yes, the same technique had destroyed the material once Italy started moving against the grain.

"Do these answer your question?" Looking away from the carving, Canada heard the sound of paper shifting and watched Russia pull back a few sheets of discarded newsprint- it looked like an economics report, something from a Sunday paper- and revealed several small plaster models.

"He already made it!" Why were they broken?

All piled up together were four birds that matched the sketches, just not exactly: one had the head raised instead of down and focused, and each one had a slightly different wing position. Italy had selected what looked like the most difficult one- a hawk or an eagle getting ready to nab its prey off the ground- as his final subject, but all of them bore the marks of native influence. Ellipses for joints and tear-drops as feathers, west coast style merging with European anatomy. They were white, beautiful little figures, and done at a much smaller scale than their wooden cousin.

But they were all broken, and, well, the hammer resting next to them explained that pretty well. The hammer head was dusted with white plaster, little bursts of white marring the table where plaster and steel had collided.

"Why would he do that...? Don't laugh at me!"

"You are a builder, Canada, not an artist." Well _that_ certainly sounded like an insult... "Not at all. It means many good things." And yet Russia was looking somewhere _else_ when he said that, his attention escaping out the windows into the dark rain. Annoyed, Canada reached out and touched Russia's chin, bringing curious indigo eyes back to his. There. He liked that better; it wasn't nice to be ignored.

"What about you?" Russia tilted his head just-so to the side, a childlike smile on his thin lips. They were almost the same height- Russia was taller, but not by much. He didn't understand the question. "Italy's an artist and I'm a builder, what does that make you?"

Russia's smile changed a bit and grew a little bigger, becoming more like a smirk as he turned around to face Canada properly. With America in the next room it felt like a risk when Russia leaned down a little, but it was worthwhile at the same time, and Canada stayed right where he was without backing up or away. He knew that was one of the things Russia liked about him: that he wouldn't jump away in fright anymore than he would boast about not being intimidated. Ivan's smile and the intrigued look in his eyes was one way he'd figured this out, but having the Russian say as much helped too.

"Me? Why, I'm a-"

"_Son of a bitch!"_

"_Grow up, you imbecile!"_

Um...

"_West,__** no!**__"_

"_**America!**_"

Canada looked up at Russia, the two of them watching the door for a moment as a flurry of voices picked up outside, not calming down as they stood there. That-

"_Stop! Let him go!"_

That was not good.

* * *

"Those idiots," Vatican hissed, and China just shook his head briskly.

"Children," he agreed, watching Japan hurry out of the bedroom and close the door behind him. He didn't get up from his seat, just listened to the shouting voices and picked out each individual one with disdain. Folding his arms stiffly, China glanced over the bed at where the Vatican City State was sitting on a chair much like his own, worrying the wooden rosary from his belt between his fingers. He was staring down at Italy, and the ancient nation followed his gaze.

"He reminds me of Rome." China selected his words with care, not looking up when he felt the Vatican's attention focus on him again. With a rough sigh, China picked himself off his chair and sat carefully on the edge of Italy's bed, first touching the silent nation's bandaged hand and then brushing some of his long red hair off of his face. "Not all the time, but every now and then I look at him and see his grandfather."

Italy certainly had the scars to match the old man now. China had expected more of the little pink marks on his body to vanish, but it seemed like most of the cuts and rips and gouges in his skin were going to remain. They didn't disfigure him, but China didn't like the implication that Italy had survived years of barbaric fighting and punishment. Like the nations bellowing at each other outside the bedroom, he didn't like feeling obligated and indebted to the soft underbelly of Europe...

Speaking of yelling, the noise wasn't subsiding. He'd expected Japan to go out and calm them down, but through the closed door China could hear Prussia booming over Germany, and then Russia started barking sharply when America's voice cut through France's muffled words.

"This isn't helping him." Vatican whispered harshly, his wrinkled hands beginning to shake as he clutched the little wooden cross and rubbed it harder than before. If China could have reached that far he might have tried taking the Micro-nation's hand, but it felt strange to wear such a young face around a nation he was so much older than. "Those idiots, shouting and screaming in his house when he's like this-"

"I can hold off Russia or America, but not both once they get started," China explained. "If I go out there with nothing it will just get worse," because if those two were fighting then China would have to choose a side, and if he did that then things would get very ugly very quickly. Or they would both side against him, which would be just as bad.

"Vatican please-" The noise in the room increased ten-fold when Canada opened the door, the yelling almost swallowing his voice as it washed over them. "You have to help stop them, they'll listen to you!"

China doubted that but the Vatican scowled and stood, his fury barely contained while China shook his head again and winced at the noise. Canada foolishly left the door open and China tsked sharply as they vanished, looking down at Italy's face and wondering how he could _possibly_ sleep through the noise. He didn't look any different as the sound of furniture scraping and feet scuffling reached them, hell, the Italian wasn't even breathing.

Wait.

"Italy-" China's hand dropped from Italy's fever-dry face to his chest, resting there for a second as he waited to feel his lungs rise or fall. Nothing happened. "Italy!" Breathing- why wasn't he breathing? "_Italy!_"

His heart was beating, but it was slow- _slowing._ China immediately jumped, bracing his hands on the bed and lowering his ear until it was over the Italian's mouth and nose. He couldn't hear anything, but he could smell- what was that smell? Thick, metallic, copper-

_'Blood?' _No, not possible. China ripped back the covers but there was no blood. He'd changed the bandages around Italy's torn arm just that morning and the gross wound was fixing itself, not getting worse. China man-handled the other nation onto his side just to check his back for the impossible, and when he let Italy down again he saw the red trailing from the pillow to his dark lips.

"_No!_" He shouted, taking Italy's jaw in hand, only to find it rigid. How was that possible? They knew he had reflexes: Italy was unconscious, not brain-dead, but a clenched jaw was not a reflex. China forced his lips back and he couldn't see what the younger nation was biting down on, but had to assume it was his tongue filling his mouth and throat with blood. "You do not get to choke right in front of me, brat! Open your mouth!"

China slapped him but the blow didn't do anything, it just forced some of the blood to travel up his nose instead of just choking his throat, thick red slowly dribbling across his cheek and down his chin. Forcing Italy onto his side again, China pounded on his back, trying to force a cough, but he was _resisting_-!

"_JAPAN!"_ He needed help, or at least someone else to take the fall with him. "_Canada! Get back in here!_"

"China?" He didn't get to look up again at whoever answered him, but he'd been right to shout for Canada because the North American's hands were abruptly on Italy's body. Together they managed to move his limbs in place so he would _stay_ on his side, and from his awkward position behind Italy China gripped the other nation's jaw, forcing his thumb up into the soft tissue behind his chin. He pushed hard, hard enough to bruise and break the skin, but China didn't care.

His mouth opened, not by a lot but Canada's fingers were between his teeth and pushing back his lips in the next instant. If he tried to clamp down again and bite him then China didn't see it, feeling the tension drain out of the Italian's neck completely as thick red blood slid out over his tongue and stained the pillow.

"Hit him again!" Canada ordered, and China obliged him by pounding on Italy's back. The Canadian wasn't shy about sticking two fingers deep into the Italian's mouth either, pulling out blood and irritating the back of his throat on purpose. Reflexes, _reflexes_-

It was weak, but Italy gagged once and then coughed, the reaction successfully triggered as several more wracked his body. He didn't gasp or lift his head, he didn't do anything except cough and shake for several moments like he was cold, but that stopped almost as soon as Canada smothered him in blankets again. It was up to them both to lift the stained pillow-case and wipe his nose and mouth clean, the coughs and shivers not doing anything to wake him up.

Blessedly, there wasn't that much blood. Only a few spoonfuls had pooled in his throat and blocked his air-way, but Canada immediately twisted a handkerchief from his pocket and wedged it between Italy's teeth, propping his mouth open and preventing him from hurting himself again in his sleep. They'd have to give him water once things calmed down...

But those bastards outside were still screaming, and China heard something shatter before he jerked the pillow out from under Italy's head.

"What are you-?"

"Keep him breathing!" China ordered, ripping the case off the pillow and tossing the soiled cushion on the floor as he stood up and stormed out of the bedroom.

The white cloth wasn't soaked with blood or drenched in it, but as he stepped out into the fighting and the yelling, China spread the white linen for all to see and let the red stains do the talking for him.

Prussia was the first one to make eye-contact, letting go of Germany's shirt as his jaw went slack and he stared between the crimson and China. Germany didn't know why he'd been released where he'd been egging to have another go at America, but black-eye and bleeding lip aside he seized up and lost all colour at the sight. As for the young upstart across the room, America barely noticed that anything was off until Russia stopped growling and forced him to turn around, the smaller blonde trapped in a heavy arm-lock as he was made to face China. America stalled instantly, and there were only mutters and swears until one by one China gathered everyone's attention.

The Vatican City rushed by in a blur of black and red, but when Germany tried to smooth his hair back and follow him China stepped in the blonde's way. The eastern nation wouldn't let the European argue with him, because as soon as Germany laid a hand on him to push China aside, he brought the fabric up like a talisman and watched the blood ward the other nation away. He tossed the cloth to the floor like a challenge and there was no talking.

Japan looked horrified and slowly sat down on one of the dining room chairs, France slipping one bruised hand into his pocket before he quietly scuffed his shoe over the broken wine glass on the floor. England was leaning heavily against one wall like he'd been pushed, his face white with strain as he nervously glanced between America and France. The sound of his cane's rubber end touching the floor was uncomfortably loud, and he was favouring his right leg more than he had before as he made himself push away from the wall and stand on his own. China was prepared to let the silence last, nodding to Russia as a sign for him to finally let America go, the northerner rolling one shoulder carefully like he'd strained it in the scuffle.

As soon as he was free America tried rushing past them into the bedroom, but just like with Germany, China cut him off. He set a hand on America's shoulder to block him, and before America could make the stupid mistake of trying to fight him, the older nation hit him with words:

"He stopped breathing." China hadn't wanted to speak- or rather, he wanted to say a lot of things but it did not feel right to break the silence in Italy's house. "He laid there, choking, while the rest of you stood out here fighting like children." No one rebuked him, they couldn't. America stepped back and Germany just stared past him like the world was crumbling away.

England's cane was the only sound, just the methodical thump and scuff of his foot over the floor as he slowly walked to where the pillow-case had fallen, standing over it with his eyes downcast as he began to weigh his options. With a quiet breath, he bent one knee and his knuckles went white around the cane's head, the Englishman lowering himself slowly until he scraped up the edge of the linen sheet with one hand. He stayed like that, unable to get up again but China didn't linger on that fact, he just watched England's fingers trail over the blood-stains before he looked back at America and Germany.

He was positive they'd started the fighting, because there was no way Germany would look oh-so guilty otherwise and with America it was practically a given. The only thing any of them could hear right now were a few muffled words from the bedroom, and then Canada reappeared from down the hall right before the bedroom door was slammed shut. China followed everyone's eyes down to the Canadian's blood-stained hands, his fingers still smeared with red from saving Italy's life.

Germany looked crushed and in need of a seat, Prussia quickly appearing at his side and walking his brother away to sit on the couch next to the droning radio. America stared at his twin with a forlorn look in his eyes. He finally seemed humbled by something, not to mention hurt when Canada shook his head carefully and walked over to the kitchen to wash his hands. China kept an eye on Russia, but the tall nation was merely observing for now, not getting involved between the brothers.

"Tomorrow we leave," China stated, expecting someone, anyone, to contradict him, but he was pleased when the others held their peace. "Use tonight to make preparations, tomorrow morning we will say our goodbyes and depart. We are not helping him by staying here, we are not helping him by hating each other in his house."

Despite the silence, China expected _someone_ to argue with him, and by someone he meant America. Humbled or no he didn't make a move to help England up off the floor, so France took responsibility instead and gripped the other nation's arm to help keep him steady. When Canada turned off the water in the kitchen America didn't move, so Russia drifted over to him instead. China heard their quiet voices murmuring to one another, but it was brief, and didn't include an interruption from the other twin.

Prussia stayed with Germany, who was joined by Japan. Vatican had locked the bedroom door to keep Italy safe from the rest of them.

America looked so alone standing forgotten in the middle of the room, no one except England so much as casting a glance his way while the super-power tried to cope with what was happening. He was failing to keep calm, and that was why China focused on him.

"Alfred." Hearing that personal, private name brought the American's blue eyes up, China keeping his voice down far enough that the call didn't carry, but they all heard it. Bringing one hand up, he curled two fingers to beckon the much younger nation over to him. America hesitated for a moment, but as China turned to walk down the hall he heard him take a breath and follow.

He walked into Italy's studio and didn't pay much attention to the lively mess around them, turning when America entered as well and shut the door behind them. China repeated the same gesture from before, bringing the disgruntled, uncomfortable American boy closer to him before he spoke. He did not want his words to carry far.

"I don't care." In fact, his words didn't carry at all, they reached America and dropped out of the air before they could flutter away. "The why, the how; none of it matters to me, America, but listen." America wasn't looking straight at him, his gaze was lost staring at a downward angle somewhere else, his vision out of focus as China hoped he was listening, choosing his words and tone of voice with deliberate care. "If you continue to crumble, I will push you down."

"What-?" America lifted his eyes and something sparked in them, but China crushed it.

"I have seen more empires rise and fall than you have known years on this earth. Do not forget who feeds your capitalist markets, do not forget whose labour you exploit on a daily basis, and never forget that I am watching you." These words, none of them were new. China wasn't making sudden claims or wild assumptions, he was simply giving a reminder to his hot-headed acquaintance. A reminder that the current balance of power only existed because it was precisely that: a balance, and one China would upset if provoked.

He considered today's events a provocation.

"You and I will not fight the way you and Russia did for fifty years." China didn't mind whispering, he had one hand in the pocket of the black suit-jacket he was wearing, comfortable in the western-style clothing after years of having it chafe and bother him. He enjoyed feeling the power brush up against his skin. "There will be no rockets or puppet regimes; either I will watch you fall and hide like a mouse in your hole, or I will chase you in there myself."

There. That was the threat. It hadn't changed much but now there was a new card in play: the Isolationist one America had been toying with for weeks now. The rhetoric his politicians were spewing was all over the internet, China couldn't have built a firewall to keep it out if he tried, and he wasn't. America's politics were testy and difficult, his relations becoming more and more complicated by the day as men and women on the world stage made repeated blunders or openly insulted other states. He wasn't in the habit of making friends anymore, and the ones he had, well...

Canada was a long ways from abandoning his brother, but France was steadily cooling towards him and Germany had violently lost his temper today in front of everyone. Those two Europeans would drag the rest of their continent away from America if he continued the way he was going: France would convince a confused and obviously very hurt England to look the other way, and Germany would drag the victims of the Euro-crisis wherever he wanted: Portugal, Greece, and all the rest. South Italy would be out for blood if word reached him of today, and if America didn't make good with the Vatican then he would have to deal with spite from an entity who existed beyond boarders.

China would not help him if things continued as they were. Either he'd watch America retreat back behind his own boarders, or he'd set the economic wheels in motion to force him in that direction. Japan was the strongest ally America had out of them all now, but with enough pressure from Europe and the rest of Asia, his brother would crack. China would _break_ _him _if he had to.

So that was the threat. And the condition? You couldn't have a threat without a condition, a something that you wanted in exchange for _not_ following through with the pain and humiliation of defeat.

"The sleeping dragon of Asia..." America murmured, tension fusing the younger nation's joints together as he stood there like a piece of warped metal. China just smiled a little bit at him, amused by the way America was deliberately trying _not_ to favour his left side at all. He just tilted his head to the side a ways and made a calming, dismissive gesture with one hand.

"I've never fought a purely economic war before. So while it would be interesting to try, this old _dragon_ would rather go back to sleep." Not a lie. There was satisfaction in having power without actually using it. When there was this much at stake China was satisfied just knowing what he _could_ do, and he'd long since outgrown the need to _prove_ such things.

"And how do I ensure that?" The simple fact that America hadn't turned on him like he kept doing with everyone else was China's reward for dragging him in here. It was hard not to smile at the distressed tyke in front of him, the simpering toddler looking for a handful of sweets only to find bitter cabbage and beans. "What do you want, China?"

"I want you to honour the treaty, Alfred." The personal name threw him in the wrong direction, and China just smiled again when he saw the American's brows come down over his blue eyes. "You remember it, don't you? '_Believe in one another. Help one another. Rely on one another. And escape all __together.' _You signed it, just like we all did." He quoted for the child's benefit, not changing his smile or moving at all as he watched America soak up the information.

"I don't under-"

"I understood the treaty as something that only bound us until we fulfilled the final clause," China interrupted, speaking in a clearer tone of voice than the whispered threats from before. "And eleven of us have done that: we escaped. Maybe we didn't believe or help or rely the way we thought we would, but we got away." And they had believed in, and helped, and relied on Italy in order to achieve that goal. China himself had held the knife that _helped_ Italy rescue them. "But _he_ did not." Italy had not escaped. He'd shed the most blood, but he was the one they'd left behind.

"He's just down the hall-"

"And his only action in two months has been to bite through his tongue and choke on his people's blood. Do you consider that freedom, Alfred?"

"Stop calling me tha-"

"If you do _anything_ to compromise his recovery again, _Alfred,_ I will consider it a blatant violation of the treaty." China cut him off and he did not apologize, he did not smile, and he did not back down. "China and America get along very well, we enjoy taking your money and you live to consume the cheap, expendable products we ship off in return. It would be a great shame if the '_Sleeping Dragon_' as you call it were to wake up over a personal dispute, so why don't we work to avoid that?"

This conversation was becoming stressful and tiresome. China had been making fun before, but now he really wouldn't mind taking a nap once this was over, so the talking should end soon. America looked too stressed to take much more, but at least he was still listening, and China didn't care if that response was was out of proper respect for his elders or sheer fury over China's behaviour. As long as the brat held his tongue, he didn't care.

"I do not care how you conduct your business in Europe," he stated, just to emphasize everything and clear the heavy air, "and I do not care how you treat your brother. There are many, many things I do not care about concerning you, Alfred, so do not make the mistake of thinking I am trying to control you and how you deal with the others. Russia can handle you, England and France can handle you, and Japan will back you up regardless of where your temper takes you, so I don't even care why you're so angry to begin with." America looked like he had something to say and China just opened his mouth with another grin, making sure to stretch his lips and shake his head as one would when speaking to a rowdy child. It shut the American up again for a few more precious moments, and China finally chose to end his lecture:

"The only person I care about in this apartment is Feliciano, so tomorrow morning after everyone else leaves, I will be going back to Beijing. And when I go I will be leaving my personal contact information with the Vatican City State. And if he calls me to say that either Alfred Jones' temper or the United States' diplomatic blunders have disturbed North Italy's rest and recovery in _any way_, then Yao Wang will report to his boss, and China will wake up," and change the face of Asian and American policy forever...

China wanted his words to hurt, the unspoken threat resonating in the air as the reality of their situation settled on America, who somehow managed to keep his temper in check. The super-power was pulled so taught he was like a rope that had begun to fray, and China refused to clip at or relieve the tension. It didn't matter to him how America felt inside, all he cared about was that none of it negatively impact the nation he owed his life to. The nation China had butchered and abandoned just to save his own skin, like an animal, like a barbarian, like everything that the People's Republic of China _refused to be_.

"I suggest..." and it really was a suggestion on China's part, not that America would believe him, "that you find someplace else to sleep tonight, _Alfred_."

* * *

**China's ability to pressure America comes from a lot of stuff you hear from time to time about America's reliance on Chinese labour markets and trade between the two nations. China is one of the world's fastest growing economies (or so the Canadian government is always crooning) and people in politics often refer to them as a "sleeping dragon" resting just off to the east.**

**The mansion and America's pissyness are both, I think, good reasons for the Dragon to wake up.**

******-Reposted September 18, 2012.**


	9. Brotherhood

**HetaOni OST, Paradise**

**AN removed.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Brotherhood

Fear: the distressing, negative sensation induced by a perceived threat.

It's the sensation of waking up in the close dark and distant rain. It's the sense of strong arms and the scent of sweet cornflowers.

It's not knowing where or when or how he is, just knowing that he's there, and how there could be anywhere, and he can't tell the difference.

So, fear.

* * *

(Wake up?)

No.

(Why not?)

Fear so strong that he- (he?) -knows he has to do something.

(Why he? Why not she? It?)

He knows because reason without words is instinctive, intuitive, self-evident but still arbitrary.

(Why a he?)

Because he's a he. That's why. Self-evident.

(And arbitrary.)

But intuitive.

(So instinctive.)

And reasonable.

(He is a he.)

And he is reasonable.

* * *

Veneziano and Romano kept a flat in Rome. It was a nice place, a two-story townhouse in the city with a small green-space in the back that they shared with their immediate neighbours. A hundred years ago it had been a private city villa, now it was home to a tiny little community.

Seborga was in that twilit garden looking for a moment's peace when he got the call from Venice. He'd tried running away from the tension going on in the kitchen, but it caught up with him through the phone.

"_I want you on a train first thing tomorrow morning._" Papa's voice was strained and difficult to understand, he sounded almost like he- _"And don't you dare breathe a word of this to Romano!_"

"Papa..." No. No, no, no, why was this happening? Why more bad news? "Papa, Romano is..." Peering back inside the house when he thought he heard San Marino's voice, or maybe Spain's, Seborga would have choked if either one was there but they weren't. He was alone outside and away from the arguing- for now anyways. He focused on the phone-call instead of worrying about the others: "He's sick, and I mean he's doing really, really badly." Vatican was quiet on the other end of the line, but Seborga could hear him breathing heavily into the receiver.

"_...**Can **you leave?"_

"Not without telling him, but otherwise yes, I think so. There's nothing I can do here anymore; our bosses are going crazy but there's nothing on paper that will fix any of it, and even _your_ boss-"

_"The Church is __**trying**__..._" But it wasn't having an impact. People were filling the cathedrals across the nation, collecting money for victims and relief efforts, but none of it was preventative: they couldn't predict where the next incident would occur. _"What about San Marino?"_

"He keeps coughing, but he denies it." Seborga dropped his voice when he gave his answer, just in case his older brother was within ear-shot.

"_And you?"_

"A fever," but- "tiny, it's nothing, honest!"

"_Either you need to come here or I have to get him out of this city."_ Seborga swallowed hard at those words, wrapping one arm around his own chest in a hug while the other kept his phone pressed to his ear. It felt cold to be outside without a jacket, but that was more his fever talking than the fresh November air. "_I wouldn't move him unless this was serious, Seborga, but perhaps he'd be safer in Rome."_

"Papa..." Venice was in trouble, but the Micro-nation couldn't help but lick his lips and shake his head, fully aware that the Vatican couldn't see him gesture like that. "If he's as bad as everyone keeps saying then that could kill him..." Moving him. Moving Veneziano in the storm and the chaos could- "What if you were attacked?" The odds were not in their favour. People like them always tended to be close to disasters when they struck.

"_Then I need you to come and be with him."_ That... that sounded like a final request- no! No they were not at that point yet. Seborga glared at the potted tomato plant sitting next to the bench he was on and blamed it for everything going wrong in their lives right now. He'd rather get angry like Romano than crumble and cry right now, crying wouldn't help them.

"What about his friends?"

"_They're leaving, praise the Lord."_ What? Why was that a good thing? "_Seborga please. Go talk to Romano and make preparations immediately, I need you as soon as he can spare you."_

Spare him? Seborga shivered from the cold and the idea of leaving Romano alone with San Marino and Spain in the same house. That couldn't happen. Maybe he could take Romano with him back to Venice? Or maybe it really would be best for Veneziano to come to Rome. If the military performed the extraction then he'd be safe- but if he was really weak enough for Vatican to _call_ them...

"Papa, did something happen?"

"_Please don't ask questions now._" Yes. That meant yes, something had happened. Something really, really bad had happened in Veneziano's house, bad enough that his friends were abandoning him.

"Papa-"

"_This is not the time for you to argue with me!_" He was shouting- _"I know you can't leave there tonight, but you must come! He cannot be left alone, there must be someone with him at all times to make sure it doesn't happen again! Seborga-"_

"Calm down! Papa please stop-" He raised his voice too high and quickly checked back over his shoulder again to make sure he _still_ hadn't attracted attention from inside. Through the phone he could hear Vatican still muttering to himself and speaking in short, sharp bursts, but Seborga did _not _want to give Spain and San Marino anything else to yell about. They couldn't get along, or maybe they just _wouldn't_... Could he really leave Romano alone with those two?

"Romano's already asleep tonight and I can't wake him up right now." He slept so little it would be a crime for Seborga to disturb him. Romano could barely walk around the house, but when he laid down he just stayed in bed with his glassy eyes staring at the walls or out the window. He probably wouldn't sleep all the way through tonight, but Seborga still wanted him rested before he tried telling him he was leaving for Venice. "Tomorrow I will talk to him- no! Papa listen to me. Tomorrow, as soon as I think he can handle it, I will tell him, and then I will get on the first train up to where you are, I promise."

Seborga was not going to cry, he wasn't going to. He could feel the exhaustion and the fear in Vatican's voice and it hurt to listen to, it sent his hands shaking madly and it was hard to take deep, steady breaths. This was really happening to them, he'd hoped so much that once the dreams of white walls and the nightmares of blood had gone away that things would get better, but they weren't. Nothing was getting better...

He was still having the dreams...

"_Your brother needs you..."_

"They both do, Papa." And didn't know how make it better...

* * *

Pain: physical or bodily suffering; a continuous, strongly unpleasant or agonizing sensation in the body, such as arises from illness, injury, harmful physical contact, etc.

Pain that has no origin, just sensation. Pain that blasts away all sense of self or reason, experience without boundary and boundary without context. Words are text are marks are meaningless and scatter like dust. Names are sounds are noises are arbitrary and without essence. Pain free of emotion and location and relation.

The fear is gone because there is only pain, but nothing is gone because nothing is here, and here is not there because there could be anywhere, and he just doesn't know.

So, pain.

* * *

Wake up.

(No.)

Wake up!

(No!)

Why not?

(No.)

Say why!

(Not again!)

Again?

(_NO!)_

* * *

England didn't want to leave and the flooded streets were only part of the reason. Like everyone else it felt wrong to up and leave Italy behind again, but they had no choice in the matter.

China didn't want to leave either, but England could tell that there was no point in arguing with him about the decision. America left the apartment that night but didn't take his things, and England took it as a sign that he was going to mimic Vatican and stay in the Cathedral instead of in the apartment, not that the Catholic father went with him tonight of course.

China had taken control, but then he'd surrendered that power over to the Vatican City State. England was certain that if there was any way for him to do it, the Representative of the Holy Catholic Church would have removed all of them from the apartment in the same hour China suggested it. He agreed to wait until the next day, but the bedroom door opened all of once for him to use the office phone, and after that it had remained locked indefinitely.

France tried to talk to England after America left, and Canada sat with him for a while in the dreary silence that had overtaken them all. He didn't need their sympathy, he didn't want to think about what America had said.

"He didn't seem too excessive..." England murmured quietly, adjusting the pillow on the edge of the couch where he was going to be sleeping again. His lower back couldn't tolerate sleeping on the floor with the others, and France just gave him a terribly sympathetic look from where he was seated on top of his own blankets nearby. The sleeping arrangements tended to remind them all of the safe room back in the mansion, but those were uncomfortable thoughts.

"Liar, England."

"How would you know?" England didn't know if he expected an answer to that question, but France didn't give one anyways. Slowly easing himself down onto his side, England winced a little as he pulled his right leg up onto the couch, one hand tucked under his head while the other just settled on the bit of cushion in front of his chest. He was dressed down but hardly comfortable, the flooding in the city had meant they all had to pack as light as possible, and laundry was hard to manage with the constant rain... "Is your hand alright?"

He didn't know why he felt so compelled to ask the question, but France had begun putting his bedding back in order and the words made him pause. England wanted to smack him for the strange look he had on at that moment, but France shrugged instead of following through with some kind of tease. He lifted his hand up and carefully flexed his fingers just to prove he could do it.

"Perhaps I should not have hit _cher Amerique_ so hard, you know?"

"I didn't expect you to hit him at all."

"Such restraint would blemish my history, what would the historians say if France didn't strike against an outnumbered foe?" France gave him a sunny smile and England just watched him quietly. He wasn't trying to look at him, not that kind of _look_ that was supposed to suddenly make sense of something England had always wondered about the other nation. He just watched how France closed his eyes and grinned, the faded bruise under his chin coming to England's attention.

The broken nose England had suffered at America's hands (or, to be more accurate, his foot), had healed within a day or two of being inflicted, and France's bruised jaw had mended neatly. They hadn't discussed either injury, but now England found himself wondering if the swelling bruise America had left with was supposed to be thanks for France's cracked teeth, or England's crushed nose...

Foolish thought. Where had that come from?

* * *

Cornflowers: _Centaurea cyanus, _a small annual flowering plant native to Europe. National flower of Germany and traditionally worn by young men in love; if the flower fades too quickly, it is taken as a sign that the man's love is not returned.

But the _smell..._

* * *

Tomatos? Smell.

(Smell _tomate?_)

_Sento odore di pomodori._

(Pomodoro. Singular.)

Pomodoro, rossa?

(Oliva, verde?)

Missing one.

(Bianco?)

White.

(White?)

No white.

(No white?)

No flag.

(No white flag?)

Red tomato.

(Green olive)

No white flag.

(No wake up.)

But- Cornflowers. Smell those?

(Corn?)

Flowers.

(Polenta.)

Blue.

(Yellow.)

You mean gold.

(Gold?)

Black, red, gold. You mean gold.

(You?)

Me?

(I?)

Sleep.

* * *

The problem was not with having San Marino in the house.

And the problem was not with having Spain in the house.

The problem was having both of them, together, in the house without a host. Putting any two independent nations in a third one's home without a proper hierarchy or balance of power turned everything into a debate, an argument, or a chance to out-muscle or out-influence or generally out-something the other. They were not bad people, but they were still nations...

Seborga didn't count as a host, and he certainly didn't have a place on any hierarchy. He'd been born shortly before Grandpa Rome finally collapsed, so while he had been acknowledged he hadn't really known their grandfather the way his Latin brothers had. He'd been good friends with the Holy Roman Empire and kept close enough to Switzerland and France that he hadn't quite considered himself a part of Italy as the centuries went by. He'd been upset when he was literally sold to Sardinia, but the Pope had never acknowledged it and, well, that was where Seborga's official history and power ended in most cases.

When he'd asked his brothers for independence in the twentieth century it had been a lack-lustre affair. Veneziano had only showed up to make sure Seborga was still going to pay his taxes and follow all Italian laws, and that was literally the end of it. He still relied on his brothers for pretty much everything, just like he had for years, and he was too small to do an awful lot about it. Seborga's sick went to Italian hospitals, his children were taught in Italian schools by Italian teachers, and his people drove down Italian roads to vote in Italian in elections. He was, in a sense, still as Italian as he'd ever been.

But he wasn't.

On paper Seborga's independence didn't mean very much, but in a situation like this it meant everything. Seborga could not control what was going on in the house because it wasn't _his_ house anymore. The most he could claim to be was a subject state, and that really wasn't something that gave you a lot of power against fully established nations. Even San Marino was more powerful than him, making things uncomfortable at best.

"I'm telling you he needs to go out and be seen-"

"_No._ He has to stay home, and rest, and stay close to the government!"

"The government can't stop what's happening!"

They were at it again. They were at it _again_ those two, and they'd only finished breakfast ten minutes ago! Seborga held his breath as the shouting reached him from upstairs, the sound of booming voices rocking the house. They weren't in Romano's room, Seborga was sure, but if they were shouting then it didn't matter where they were standing.

Frustrated, an idea sparked and Seborga quickly fetched a lighter from the kitchen drawer, not hesitating as he scurried over to his backpack where it was sitting on one of the dining room's large chairs. A few tightly wrapped red bundles came out of a heavy-duty pouch inside the main body of the bag, Mandarin instructions printed in black ink hanging from the end of the string.

The fire-crackers were a gift from Hong Kong the last time Seborga had seen him. He took down one of the small hanging pots holding fresh herbs near the kitchen window and looped the small explosives over the nail in the wall. With a quick flick of the lighter, the fuse took and he shot out of the kitchen to hide around the edge of the stairs.

It was not excessive, but the fireworks were _loud_. They sounded a bit too much like gun-shots, but they were still quieter than that, very small so they could be set off anywhere without bringing the police running to check out the sound. The noise brought Spain and San Marino stampeding down the steps and Seborga slipped behind them both and back upstairs, ignoring their shouts and stammers and bickering. San Marino looked a lot like Grandpa, which meant he looked a lot like Spain with his dark hair forever trapped in that bed-head style, but his skin was much lighter, fair like Seborga's, and he was the widest of them all in the shoulders. He had his sunglasses up and resting on his dark curls when the youngest brother passed him, but he didn't see him, and that was good.

It was not excessive to set off fireworks as a diversion. Seborga couldn't stand up and shout at them once they got going: either they'd either turn on him (they'd done it before) or ignore him completely, so there was no point. If he wanted the shouting to stop then he couldn't add _more _screaming to the mix.

"_Seborga!_" Like that. Oops.

Nope, nope, nope, not going back down there. Landing on the second floor, Seborga quickly twisted the knob to get into Romano's bedroom and shut it behind him, twirling the handle until the mechanism in the door clicked and locked them both in. Safe.

"...You're a little shit." There was something like grudging affection in Romano's sleepy voice, and Seborga spun around before casually leaning on the door. Two heavy bangs from Spain's fist threatened to break it down, but Spanish curses led to heavy-handed Italian as San Marino caught up and barked for Spain not to make so much noise.

Cruel irony.

"How's your headache?" Waiting until the grumbling faded back downstairs before speaking, Seborga carefully moved away from the door and approached his brother.

The carved, heavy oak bed Romano was laying in needed to be re-stained, but he'd also acquired it in en era when hand-made solid wood was the only way to get furniture. The thick blankets spread over the bed and tucked around him were too thick for early November, but his fever was the kind that made him chatter and shake uncontrollably without the added warmth. The pillows propping him up went from Egyptian cotton to rough and wooly throws, and several paper folders from his office were scattered over the quilts and blankets around him.

Gino, his brothers' pudgy brown tabby cat, was doing his part to keep Romano rested. The feline was sprawled over the important paper-work and swished his tail back and forth happily. The familiar was content to purr and snuggle against financial statements and budget reports, eyes closed and duties fulfilled.

"Are they done yelling?" To be fair, Gino was probably the smallest of Romano's distractions, but his brother was laying on his side, arms folded and eyes half-open as Seborga approached him. "It should go away soon." The older brother's fever wasn't any better as Seborga checked it, his own illness making the air feel cold around them. Romano was always a bit better about touch and personal space when he was sick, Seborga wasn't sure why, but he didn't question it when his brother reached out from under the blankets and held his hand.

"Hey, um..." Now was as good a time as any to ask. It was still early, and Seborga needed to head north as soon as he could. He hadn't even bought his ticket yet, but- "Romano, um... I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Romano had closed his eyes while Seborga stood there, their hands loosely clasped. He didn't swear as much when he was sick, not really sick like this anyways. He didn't look up, he just stayed curled up on his side as Seborga brushed his dark hair back behind one ear.

"Romano, I have to leave Rome for a bit, is that okay?"

"Leave...?"

"For the north. It should only take a few days but-" Romano opened his eyes and Seborga stopped talking.

"Why?" He was scared, and seeing his brother like that sparked the same feeling in Seborga. Romano didn't get scared, Romano was never scared, and even when he was terrified he didn't really show it. He'd scream and he'd yell and he'd throw things at something that spooked or freaked him out, he didn't... let it creep into his eyes like that. He didn't go pale like that. He didn't grip whoever was closest to him with thin, feverish fingers that weren't as strong as they should have been. "Y-Your boss? Why are you-?"

"No, _no,_ that's not why." Lowering his voice and dragging up the chair Spain had left in here, the cat woke up at the sound and meowed softly, walking over the bedding before pawing gently at Romano's shoulder. Seborga was coming to hate all the bedside waiting that was expected of them, not because it felt like they weren't doing anything, but because it meant his brothers weren't getting _better_. "My prince has nothing to do with this, I just-"

"No, no you can't-" Romano was _sick_, he was nauseous and his fever was making him breathless, quiet words tumbling off his lips as he shook his head. He was staring through Seborga with glassy green eyes, the younger brother resting his elbows on the bed and carefully running a hand over Romano's dark hair. "-can't leave the Republic, no, you-"

"I'm not going home, I'm going to Venice." He whispered the words, having hoped to keep that part out of things, but, what was Romano talking about? Leave the Republic? Seborga had no reason to-

"If the north breaks apart..." _Oh_, that was why.

"It won't."

"It has before." Romano's green eyes looked hollow, exhausted, and more frightened than he knew his brother would ever acknowledge. His voice was so breathless and _quiet..._ "When Nonno died I kept the south together, but you and Lombardy, and Tuscany, and Genoa, and Sardinia, and Trentino, and Venezi-"

"Stop." There were more names Romano could add to that list, but before he could ramble off the names of every state and commune in North Italy Seborga wrapped his arms around the south and hugged him tight. He was surprised and upset when Romano hugged back, because it showed just how freaked out his brother was. "He's not dying, and I'm not breaking away," he said quietly, resting his forehead against his brother's feverish skin.

It took several quiet, careful minutes before Romano was able to completely calm down again. It was the fear, and the anxiety, and the exhaustion of carrying a nation meant for two all alone on his shoulders. By the time Seborga soothed his brother to the point where Romano was laying down on his side again, Gino dutifully curled up and purring loudly to calm him, it was clear he was just as scared for himself as he was for Veneziano. How was the south supposed to cope with taking care of things that were so far outside his influence? If Seborga _did _leave then Romano would lose the only sense he really had of _any _of the Northern provinces, and the Principality himself barely had any control over his own citizens...

"Why Venice?" Romano's voice was still pitifully quiet when he spoke again, fingers curling in Gino's soft fur. His green eyes were hazy with the need for sleep. "That apartment's almost full."

"Papa called..." Seborga admitted softly, finding it hard to meet his brother's gaze, but he'd climbed up onto the bed and was laying in front of him, Romano's free hand clasped between both of his on the thick quilts. If he trusted his fever then Romano was the only warm thing in the room. "The others are leaving."

He expected... something else. Seborga expected another panic attack, or maybe swearing, or tears. He expected something from Romano that his brother didn't deliver, laying there on his side with hot, ragged breaths ripping up his lungs. He almost looked like he was getting ready to fall asleep, his tanned face flushed and full lips slightly pale from sickness. Instead, in a voice Seborga could barely hear, his brother spoke:

"Grandpa fell asleep once." Seborga didn't know if he'd heard this story or not, so he just laid there quietly while his brother told it. "He was sleeping under an olive tree. He just wanted to take a short nap after a fight with Germania. It was warm. It was spring." Romano's eyes slowly drifted shut, not closing all the way but just enough for Seborga to know that he was was someplace far, far away. "Veneziano summoned Papa, and Papa told me to come. He was just sleeping, but it was different." He hadn't heard this story before, but he knew how it ended... "One moment he was there, and the next..."

Seborga didn't know he was crying until he felt Romano's warm hand resting the side of his face, his thumb brushing back and forth to wipe away the scalding water. Romano's eyes were still barely open, and his voice was just a whisper as the younger brother turned his face slowly down into the pillows and blankets, looking for the comfort that being warm and in bed was supposed to bring. Things were supposed to be getting _better_.

"We waited..."

_Better_, not worse: _better_.

"Byzantium said her goodbyes, and Spain left with the other Iberians..."

He was out of the mansion, he was supposed to be getting stronger now, he should be healing, _recovering-_

"Gaul took France away. Britannia wanted nothing to do with us..."

_Veneziano..._

"Germania ended it."

He felt like a child. They weren't just tears anymore, his chest hurt so bad Seborga felt himself shaking before the first sob fought its way out, making way for the next one and the one after that. He couldn't stop himself from crying, he tried and instead he just pushed his face as far into the pillows as it would go, Romano's arm slung over his back before he found himself being pulled into a hug.

"No... please no..."

"Go see him..."

"_Please..._"

This couldn't be real, Seborga didn't understand it. No. How could so much change so fast? It- it just couldn't. Seborga hadn't been in Bern for the World Conference that had destroyed his brother, he hadn't seen Switzerland in years, not even to tour it. The last time he'd seen Veneziano had been in the summer, just a week _before_ he left for that summit on Globalization.

His brother had driven out west to review plans for a new rail corridor in the area, something to improve transit for the major cities and smaller towns and villages in between. He'd come by Seborga's house as a courtesy. They'd spent the afternoon together, had lunch, walked through the town, and talked about business and love and cats. The heat had been intense and his brother had borrowed a pair of shorts so they could go swimming together near Seborga's actual house.

That was the last thing he could remember; the two of them laying on the fresh grass with the hot sun warming their backs and drying the water from their hair. He remembered Veneziano swinging his legs and telling him with a laugh that if Seborga really liked Miss Monaco then he shouldn't give up on her. He'd been smiling, his head resting on his folded arms and that great big grin he was known for competing with the sun's brilliance.

Three months later, he was dying.

* * *

Daisies: _Leucanthemum vulgare, _a widespread flowering plant native to Europe and the temperate regions of Asia_._ This grassland perennial grows in meadows and fields, under scrub and open-canopy forests, and in disturbed areas. It is a symbol of innocence, gentleness, and purity.

A symbol of guilt, cruelty, and hate.

* * *

(Name.)

Name?

(What name?)

Names are sounds are noises are arbitrary and without essence.

(Identity.)

What?

(You forgot identity. Names are identity.)

No they aren't.

(Names are sounds are utilitarian: to serve a purpose.)

Purpose.

(To establish identity.)

The self is not a name.

(No, but the sound identifies meaning.)

Meaning?

(Meaning I speak to you, or you speak to me, or we speak to them.)

Those are pronouns, not names.

(Tell me your name.)

Tell me _your_ name.

* * *

Wake up?

(No.)

Stubborn.

(What?)

Stubborn.

(Ve~)

Don't say that.

(Say what?)

Ve~

(Say what?)

Say that!

(What?)

Wake up!

* * *

(Their voices.)

I can hear them.

(All together)

Almost together.

(Almost.)

Almost?

(Not all.)

Almost.

(Not all.)

Missing.

(Something's missing.)

Missing again...

(Again?)

Something...

(Not again...)

Again?

(No!)

_Again-!_

(NOT AGAIN!)

_DON'T TOUCH ME AGAIN!_

* * *

**-Reposted September 18, 2012.**


	10. Open Your Eyes

**The Decision of Love, Lost in Paradise.**

**Again, Pochi, thank you, _thank you, thank you_, for taking the time to speak with me, and for ultimately agreeing to proof the next three chapters of Recovery.**

**Now enough author-babble: go read!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Open Your Eyes

Fear.

Fear of everything. Fear of everything. Fear of anything. Fear of everything. Fear of everything. Fear of anything. Anything at all. Fear. Fear of everything. Fear of everything. Fear of nameless things and fear of named things, fear of fear of fear. Fear of everything. Fear of anything.

_And everything..._

* * *

"Go to him." Germany gave a start and looked at Japan. He wasn't feeling like himself. His palms were sweating, his throat was tight, and he kept taking deep breaths but his lungs always felt half-empty...

Everything about what was happening just made him feel jittery and uneasy. Everything about right now made him want to burst into tears. It was pathetic, but the feelings of shame just made it even harder to keep the tears away. He would not sob pathetically no matter how much he was hurting inside. It was unbecoming of him as a nation to behave as such, he'd done it more than enough times over the last several weeks and nothing had come of it. Italy was still asleep, Feliciano still hadn't come back to them.

Crying solved nothing.

* * *

But fear.

(And pain.)

And cornflowers.

(But fear.)

And pain.

(To wake up.)

Black, red, gold.

(Verde, bianco, rosso.)

Wake up?

(Want to wake up.)

Next to Cornflowers.

(And daisies?)

Want to wake up...

(Want to see him...)

Lots of daisies...

* * *

"America is saying his goodbyes." Germany stated, his voice stiff and brittle as the words were pulled out of his throat. Japan just kept watching him however, a very sad and very small smile painted on his smooth face. It had taken many years to learn how to read this curious little nation properly, so Germany still felt some small sense of pride whenever he managed to decode his friend's mild expressions. He just wished that this time Japan would give him a more dignified look, not such a sad and piteous one.

"It's not a secret, Ludwig. Go to him." The six of them were the last ones left: America was behind the door where Germany was standing, saying goodbye at Italy's bedside before he would have to leave through the storm. China was wiping down the kitchen one last time and giving Vatican very clear, incredibly _simple_ instructions on how to heat up the meals they had left in the fridge for him to eat over the next few days. Prussia was in the office for one last phone call before they left, and Japan was here with him. "No one is judging you."

"_I_ am judging me."

Japan smiled again, or he smiled differently. His face changed in a way that Germany wasn't used to seeing and he didn't know how to decode that expression. He seemed so sad, but also almost happy at the same time. Everything about his friend seemed to shift for that one moment, the shyest little laugh passing his lips before Japan put words to his bizarre elation.

"I said the same thing to Her- ah, to Greece, when we came back." To Greece? "It was how I convinced myself to carry on until Romano contacted us. So I understand, but..." But Japan looked away as the bedroom door swung open, the hard-eyed American stepping into the short hall and stopping abruptly when his path was blocked by the two of them already standing there. Japan meekly stepped aside to make room for him, but Mr. Jones didn't storm through once the path was opened. He looked at Germany instead, an uncharacteristically sad look hovering in his blue eyes just over the terrible welt France had left on his cheek. Germany was responsible for the bruises on the back of America's hand, the cut on his lip having already mended from last night.

America had waited until England and the others had already left before coming back. He hadn't had the gall to meet China's gaze, and this was the first time he'd willingly looked at Germany since the catastrophe.

"I'm sorry." What was this? An apology? "I made you mad, so this is my fault." America never apologized for _anything. _If he did he might have convinced Canada to wait and leave with him instead of taking off with Russia. Germany didn't know what to do with the apology now that he had it, the silence stretching awkwardly between them.

"I..." What? America had more to say? "I promise not to interfere with anything unless you ask me to, Germany. You or him." Another very, very rare thing for Alfred to say: a pledge to stand by instead of rushing headlong in to things. As much as Germany had been hoping for some sort of humility since the American's arrival, this felt like too little too late.

"It was good that everyone came to see him." Germany allowed, glancing past America's shoulder where he'd left the door open, Italy's sleeping form still visible on the bed. "But it wasn't just your fault. I..."

Wait...

"...Ludwig?"

"Germany-san?"

"Did..." He couldn't speak, it shouldn't have been so hard and yet he couldn't get the words out. "Did you move him?" It was a simple question, he shouldn't have been so worked up about asking it: there was no rule against touching Italy as he slept, in fact it was practically encouraged by the group. Not even France would try something lewd on Italy when he was like this and ever since Romano had left even the Vatican had been alright with having someone, usually Germany, share the bed with the afflicted nation. He'd been tormented and alone for too long, none of them could stand to leave him like that...

So it was a simple question, and one that America answered with confusion.

"No?" The American turned, the German stepped around him, and the Japanese one quickly rushed to find his phone and place a call to Rome.

* * *

Their voices.

(I _can't_ hear them.)

Cornflowers-

(-and tomatoes.)

I can't hear them.

(They're not here?)

B-But I...

(I need...)

Amo?

(Fratello?)

Roma-

(Germa-)

Lu-

(_Lo-!)_

* * *

Italy's head had been propped up on pillows when America went in to say goodbye, and his head was still there, but now it was turned away from the door and facing the window. His left arm was down near his hip instead of up over his stomach where France had placed it after kissing his hand. When Germany approached him, he saw tension stressing the Italian's thin face.

"It-" The first thing he did was brush his hand over Feliciano's face, his skin still too warm and dry from his fever, but there was a tremor shaking him from inside. He could feel how much force was being used to keep Italy's head down, his eyes squeezed shut instead of resting like before. The Italian was going to puncture holes in the blanket if he gripped it any tighter in his hand, Germany carefully trying to loosen the frantic hold as Vatican swept into the room. Ludwig didn't get in the Micro-nation's way as he freed Feliciano's hand from the blanket, threading his fingers through the shaking set and feeling that tight, desperate grip dig into him. It didn't hurt, it was reassuring.

Germany bundled up and held onto all the feelings that made him want to shove Vatican aside as the Micro-nation leaned over Italy's head and shoulders. He made himself look away from how the Holy See's hands were on Feliciano's body and stroking back his auburn hair. Italian poured like clear water over the stricken nation's head, the language meant to sooth and coax him back to life. Vatican wasn't praying, he was speaking the normal everyday vernacular of Rome- but it wasn't meant for Germany to listen to. Germany could hold Italy's hand, but he was more or less banished to the foot of the bed.

_'But I just want you to wake up. Please, I'm begging you, just open your eyes again...'_ Kissing the hand that wouldn't stop clawing his, Germany wrapped his other hand around Feliciiano's wrist, careful of the bandages and the bruises they hid as he closed his eyes. _'I love you, and I won't forgive myself if the last time you saw my face was because of that... that Thing... So please, just wake up...'_ Just wake up and look at him, _please..._

_Please..._

* * *

Fear of everything.

Everything is pain.

Fear of pain.

No more _pain...!_

* * *

"Did he do anything else?" Romano could barely keep himself upright, one hand pressing down on the dresser in front of him, the other clutching the phone tight and holding it against his ear.

"_Germany and Vatican rolled him onto his side, but no, I'm afraid that was everything..._" If Romano'd been there, would there have been more?

Veneziano hadn't woken up, but he moved. He held the Potato-bastard's hand and he shed a few tears behind closed eyes. He'd gasped for breath and laid on the mattress with his entire body rigid and shaking. He'd come so _close-_

But then he'd just fallen back to sleep...

"I..."

_"The two of them are going to stay: Vatican has given Germany permission, but America has already left and China and I are about to go now. We can't leave him alone, Romano, but I don't think listening to the rest of us shout and argue will do him any good."_ No, no that was smart of them to think like that. Romano just couldn't help wondering if waking up with _only_ the Potato-bastard and Vatican with him wouldn't push his brother into some kind of fit. What if he thought Germany was Holy Rome again? Did the others even know to watch out for that? What if Vatican couldn't convince Veneziano that his friends had just gone home, that they weren't dead?

What if that was his last gasp?

"He..."

"_Please get some rest, Romano-san."_ Japan's voice was polite and soft-spoken through the line, Romano giving up the fight with words he couldn't say. _"It would break Feliciano's heart to hear how you sound right now, so please... There are too many things wrong right now, you have to focus on your health and hope that it supports his again like before. Please, if there is anything you need then don't hesitate to call one of us."_

He-

It just-

But-

"...Thanks." Romano set the phone back down in the cradle, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to fight off the burn before it got any worse. At least he was at home, not stuck in his office again waiting for more bad news.

All of this just...

It was exactly what he'd told Seborga, that's what it was; one last gasp, a swan-song that meant surrender into an infinite black. Maybe he was wrong but Romano didn't think so, not anymore, the sicker he got the less he could manage the hope that meant his brother was going to recover. Japan had called him like Romano'd demanded, but he already knew the other nation hadn't told him everything. Something had happened that was forcing the others out of the house, and nobody was going to tell him about it. He'd have to wait for Seborga to go and then report back once he knew.

But part of him felt like he already knew. That part of him that had watched the mighty Roman Empire wither away and die...

"Romano?" Seborga was still red-eyed and washed out from crying, but Romano turned when he heard his name and let his little brother cross the room and take his arm. He hated being helped back to the bed but didn't complain about it, making eye-contact with Spain and San Marino as the two hovered in the doorway before stepping inside. He'd sent Seborga to summon them both back up here, and as the quilts and pillows were re-adjusted around him Romano took a deep breath and held it, trying not to cough.

He was exhausted and his body was one great big ache. His back was pulsing and his arms were impossibly heavy, his hands cold without the blankets covering them. He held his breath just to keep his chest from rattling, and he knew his eyes were filmy because he kept blinking but Spain's face wasn't clearing up for him. He was tired but he couldn't sleep, and every time he stayed in one position for too long something would begin to hurt or burn or shake, forcing him to move again.

"Come here." He was miserable, but there was no one else he could rely on to do this for him. He was not going to die, and so he refused to give up everything he and his stupid brother had worked so damn hard for.

"You shouldn't keep trying to walk around like that." San Marino scolded, and Romano called up the fiercest glare he could and pegged his _little_ brother with it. It was an ages-old battle between the two of them to figure out who was older, but South Italy tried to reign in his temper before it could distract and exhaust him.

"You..." he said sternly, focusing on his brother, "are going to remember who's house you're in." For a moment San Marino's wide face didn't change, like he wasn't even sure Romano had spoken simple Italian to him. After a second the Micro-nation seemed to clue in though, his stance shifting as he brought his hands up onto his hips, pushing back the edges of his blazer as he did so. There was a challenging look in his brown eyes and Romano met it without question: "And I expect some fucking respect while you're at it. And _you._"

Spain had been standing there there, grinning while Romano opened his mouth and gave the firm, concise order to the other nation. He had his lanky arms folded over his chest, leaning over just enough like he was going to start nudging San Marino with his elbow and be a jerk. When South Italy pegged the Spaniard with a glare, the idiot's grin just got worse until Romano shocked him by opening his mouth with painstakingly prepared Spanish:

"This is my house, and these are my brothers." Spain almost choked at the sound of his language hitting him, but Romano _did not care_. "I don't need you. I _want_ you here, but I do not need you. If you fight with him one more time, I'll throw you out myself. I don't care who starts it, Antonio: get along, or get out."

His heart was beating a lot faster than it should have, pain spearing Romano in the chest as he found it difficult to breathe after saying so much. He'd wanted to tag a curse on the end of that ultimatum, _'get along or get __**the fuck**__ out'_, but the muscles in his chest wouldn't work in sync so he had to cut it short. Seborga's hand was on his shoulder and Romano found his eyes drifting further out of focus than before, but he pushed through it. He was _not _dying, and his tongue fumbled for the words in his mother-tongue to make himself clear.

"Seborga is leaving tomorrow morning." It should have been today, but his brother had already said that, thanks to another accident on the rail lines, there were no trains moving past Bologna today, or at least none he could get a ticket on. "And if you... two you..." God it was so hard to breathe... "If I won't... trust..."

"Romano?" San Marino rushed up and took his hand, or at least Romano thought it was his, it looked right but he couldn't see his brother's face? "_Romano look at me..."_ Look at what?

"_Lovino?"_ How did everyone... know that name? Spain's voice sounded far away, or maybe his ears were just plugged with something. Romano couldn't tell the difference, he just knew he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders before Seborga's muffled voice tried to poke through the thickening fog.

"_Roma?" _The lights in this room were so bright, the lamp in the corner just kept growing and-

"_Romano wake up!"_ It was hard to breathe...

"_Lovino!"_

Sleep...

* * *

He could hear the rain... It didn't hurt.

But the sound of it... it _frightened_ him.

He could feel... his shoulder, it was underneath him on his side. As soon as he felt his shoulder, he felt the numb weight of his left arm. That didn't hurt either.

But his arm _should_ hurt, and the fact that it didn't- that scared him. Did he just not _have_ an arm anymore? An arm, an arm, what did it mean to lose an arm? What was an arm to begin with? Names were just sounds were just noises were all arbitrary and without essence-

_'Stop that...'_ Stop that, stop it, no more of that... _'I want... to wake up... please... let me just...'_ But if he woke up then what would happen? Wouldn't it all start over? _'If I'm thinking it... then I've already...'_

He could hear the rain. He could hear it peppering the roof and tapping on the windows behind him. He could smell the dusty pillow under his face and feel his curled fingers where his hands were bent in front of him, his body twisted on its side. Nothing moved, not even his eyes: he refused to move. He could hear the rain and smell the dust and pieces of his body felt like they were missing, but he wasn't going to move. And even if he was awake, he wasn't going to open his eyes.

He wasn't going to see those white walls again...

Those bright florescent lights...

All that slowly spilling blood...

_'I can smell...'_

Not again. Never again...

_'...Cornflowers?'_

No, that wasn't right. He breathed in again, deeper this time, looking for death.

Cornflowers, sweet, earthy, semi-cool across the palette- how else could you describe a smell except like a taste? Alcohol; spiced, sharp, not for drinking- after-shave? Mint, but not peppermint, spearmint.

He tried again.

Cornflowers, aftershave, spearmint. And dog- that scent of an animal that buried itself in clothes and products, becoming inseparable. And leather, supple and well aged. And something else, like bread freshly baked, the scent lingering on the bed above the scent of dust. All those scents, all those little triggers, broken memories with sharp, jagged little edges...

Warm. It wasn't something he'd noticed, but he was warm. Not all warm, but enough warm. His legs were cold under the weight of several thin blankets, his face and throat were cold where the air touched them. But his shoulder was warm, his back, down his side. Something heavy, something warm had been pulled around him, something outside the blankets? Something _inside_ the blankets?

_'Why are there blankets?'_ Why was there a bed? Why was there rain? The windows were too high to see out of, the walls were too thick to hear anything. Why was there the sound of rain and the sensations of a bed and the feeling of something warm? Why did he smell cornflowers inside and how could he smell dust when everything was always perfectly perfectly clean?

What would happen if he... opened his eyes?

His first reaction, instinctive, visceral, was to shut them even tighter at the thought, to forget that he could even imagine such a thing. No. Don't look. Don't open. Don't see the white walls and the white piano and the tattered flag and the blood slipping out of his skin. He could hear rain, not footsteps, but if he opened his eyes then he'd realize his mistake and he'd be straight back where he'd started. So don't open them. Don't look.

_'...Who __**am**__ I?'_ It wasn't a kind thought, it wasn't a question he wanted to think about, to hear the answer to. _'Who __**was**__ I?_' He'd been someone, hadn't he? He'd stood for something? Something important, something about houses and families and loyalty and honour and idealism- and utopia. Something to do with utopia, not that he'd been one, but he'd aspired, hadn't he? They all did- or they all had, or they all should. They? How did one _embody_ utopia?

_'The same way I embody a nation..._' Nation. Country. Bonds and oaths and swears and laws, symbols and triumphs and heroes, defeats and proverbs and lessons, examples: he was an example? Example of what? _'An Italian._'

Example. Example was not the same as a definition, an example was just a sample, it was something _like_ what could be, it was a possibility. He represented an ideal but that did not make him the reality, he was a representation of... of an abstract? Or a concrete? Or a dream? Was he a fact? A myth? A stereotype? Stereotype of what?

_'An Italian.'_ An Italian, someone from-_ 'From Italy._' Someone from... _'I... am Italy...'_ North Italy- the technicality caught up with him immediately, and he remembered: _'I am the San Marco quarter of the City of Venice of the Region of Veneto of the Northern Half of the Republic of Italy, I am General Feliciano Vargas of the San Marco quarter of the City of Venice of the Region of-_' He had a very long name...

_'And I can smell cornflowers...'_ North Italy opened his eyes. He opened them to the dark and the rain and the still, chilly air of a room he couldn't see, laying on a bed he could only feel with someone he could only smell while his eyes refused to adjust in the poor light. But he'd opened his eyes.

_'...No.'_ And then he wished he were dead.

* * *

**AN Removed**

******-Reposted October 19th, 2012**


	11. Seven Point Eight

**Empty, Heart of Fire, Starvation.**

**AN moved.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Seven Point Eight

Germany woke up because he could hear something, as in, something aside from the rain still pelting the building from all sides. It sounded like wheezing, rather like a saw through dry wood. But that didn't make any sense: Italy had a workshop but he rarely used anything that could be classified as lumber, and no one would be stupid enough to toy with his works while he was still recovering. And why would there be anyone else here to begin with? The others had all left hours ago...

Tightening his arm around the Italian he'd climbed into bed with, the cathedral had practically wept for Vatican to go down again tonight despite the Holy See's complete lack of confidence in Germany. But in the end he'd gone, because although Seborga couldn't leave Rome until tomorrow, the people of Venice still needed to hear the voice of their church tonight. They needed anything that would help them keep calm and not fall into the chaos sweeping the northern half of the nation. The most important thing was that Italy not be left alone, and despite whatever misgivings the holy father might have had, Germany hadn't left the bedroom since he'd shut the front door.

But that sound... Restless now, he fully expected the strange noise to go away so he could go back to sleep: if the sound wasn't going to wake Italy up then he simply _did not_ want to put up with it. To his half-awake and only semi-aware shock, the sound not only grew louder when he tried to settle down, it became animate as well. It was in front of him too.

Italy was... panting-?

_'His fever!_' First his fever, then the blood, then that fit he'd had this morning- no, please no more of that-!

Snapping out of his doze Germany quickly moved his hand so it was resting flat against Italy's back, confirming for sure that it was the other man's breaths he was hearing, his chest expanding and contacting sharply. His eyes weren't adjusting in the dark but Germany could slowly make out the fact that Italy was shaking too, rattling head-to-toe with whatever was afflicting him now. Damn it, Romano! Did he still have no idea what was wrong back in Rome!-?

Lurching upright, Germany's hand quickly fumbled for the lamp sitting next to the bed, a sharp click washing half the room with amber light before he turned back around and- and... _and..._

_Don't touch me._ Those eyes said. _Don't touch me. Stay away!_

"Italy-" No! That just made it worse!

He didn't understand what he was seeing. After weeks of waiting Germany just didn't understand it. Italy's eyes were _open_, their colour hidden in the dim light but still _open_ despite that. He was looking at him, almost right through him, but the tears- no, why were there so many?

"_Italy..._" He tried again, slowly reaching out with one hand, making no sudden movements towards the body lying contorted on the bed. Contorted was the only word for it: he'd moved a bit before Germany woke up, his position only noticeable now that the German was above him and looking down. Italy's hips were twisted down against the mattress, his legs like scissors and, he imagined, his knees braced to suddenly force his body up if he felt threatened. His hands were knotted in the bedsheets, the fingers of one hand shaking much more than the other: that probably meant they were the left.

"Stop, please stop it, you're going to hurt yourself." Lowering his voice even more as he spoke, Germany listened as the harsh breaths that had woken him up suddenly stopped; a terribly fierce look entering the Italian's eyes through the tears as he clenched his jaw, silently baring his teeth in the German's direction like an animal. This... this wasn't like him. Even with the gun in the music room, even when he'd shot England from less than ten feet, he hadn't looked anything like this...

_'What did I expect...?_' Not hostility. Not the ferocity that not only made Germany pull back his hand, but for good measure almost chased him right off the bed.

If not for the tears, he'd have been on his feet and headed for the other room. If there hadn't been so much pain wrapped up behind the aggression then he'd have fled to call someone else for help. Vatican was just across the canal, Germany's phone was in the living room-

But he wasn't going anywhere. He refused to do it, he would not _leave_ Italy alone when he was like this. Instead he slowly, _carefully,_ laid back down on the bed like before, except maybe not as close. The mattress groaned slightly as he came to rest on his back, his arms down by his sides and head tilted to stare eye-to-eye at the Italian next to him.

Veneziano choked on a breath, sobbing through a gasp as a wordless cry needled the air. It was a sharp ribbon of sound that hurt almost as much to hear as it must have to produce. Italy's face changed just enough in that moment to hint at the fear, to give him an unintentional glimpse of the trauma, before his body fidgeted weakly. If he tried getting up with that, it failed, and Germany almost begged him again to take it easy. Almost, because instead:

"I'm sorry." Instead he said what he had to, instead of what he wanted to. The Italian's tears kept falling, his face a terrible mess of anger and terror, but he stopped struggling so hard to get up. "I promised you a safe place, a sanctuary with a big table and enough beds for everyone. And I built those things for you: but it wasn't safe."

Italy stopped struggling now, but his face, the tension, his hostility was still-

"I promised I don't know how many times that we would escape together, but in the end I left you behind..." Technicalities about who and why didn't matter. They didn't change the truth. Italy closed his eyes so tightly at the words that Germany almost tired reaching out for him again- but he knew Italy would feel the shift in the bed if he tried that. The anger didn't go away, but it was quieted.

"But-" he watched Italy tense up at the word, concerned with how much he resembled a spring wound up as tight as it would go. Any more tension and he would snap, so Germany took a deep, careful breath before he spoke again, minding his words closely as his voice fell down to a hoarse whisper:

"But I promised I would come back. And I _know_ I took too long, Feliciano, and I know a should have realized it sooner..."

Please, please, please, don't let him regret this. Please, please, please...

"But I've loved you for as long as I can remember, and I just want your pain to stop now. It's over, and I just want to see you free of it at last. I _love_ you..."

It wasn't fair to try and describe it; to rationalize the effect his words had on too much trauma. The best Germany would say, later, was that with eyes still shut and body still tortured, Feliciano's face was overcome by a flood of something carrying both shock and disbelief. The emotions emerged from the centre of his narrow brow and broke through the hysteria and rage, but that was all he really saw. Germany would never know for sure what the real effect of his words was, because as soon as the reaction started it was usurped by something else.

The something else was painful and it was jarring, it strangled the sobs and dried up the tears so Feliciano's eyes could blink twice and then stare blindly at nothing. Germany barely even had a chance to take it in, to recognize that he'd even been heard with his whisper before the something happened and changed everything. In that moment Italy's eyes opened and his pupils shrank down to invisible points, the amber light reflecting off the whites as his irises vanished back into his head and his lips parted soundlessly.

Veneziano's body found its way to its back, convulsing violently as if he was experiencing a seizure, and after that Germany wouldn't know what else he could say.

He didn't know what broke the bedroom window, and even several frantic minutes later, with Spain bellowing at him through the phone for more details and the house in Rome thrown into chaos from his call, Germany wouldn't be able to explain.

Because the window shattered, the storm came in, and Italy was gone.

* * *

Ever since he'd been small, Romano had had health problems. He'd been born with them. Mostly they were just flukes, events he couldn't control and that made people try and worry about him- or totally put distance between them so they wouldn't _have_ to worry. He'd inherited the problems from Grandpa Rome, but Nonno hadn't really understood what caused it or why he would sometimes, for no reason, become suddenly sick or hurt.

Grandpa had blamed it on his gods. Vatican had blamed it on _one_ God. But Romano and Veneziano were the ones to figure out that it had nothing to do with divinity at all. It was some weird thing known as _plate tectonics,_ and it was the reason why the volcanoes that peppered South Italy's body- the big one Vesuvius on his back, the smaller one Etna on his ankle, would suddenly wake up and cause him excruciating pain without warning. Or with some warning: he'd learned to feel for the little trembles and soreness that came from the minor earthquakes or gas build-ups under the surface. It wasn't foolproof yet, but he was getting better...

Earthquakes hurt, but Romano knew better than to complain about them around Japan- not that he sometimes didn't, but he was careful about it. He generally tried to avoid the South Pacific Rim whenever the shakes and pains bothered him. America was a lot easier to talk to about stuff like that, or that Canada guy.

A big earthquake could make you really sick, especially if it set off a volcano while it was going. That hadn't happened in a very long time though, something he was grateful for. The quakes in '02 an '09 had both been painful for him, but nothing compared to the havoc Japan and Haiti had been forced to put up with.

Regardless, he'd had Veneziano with him every time it happened since the eighteen-sixties. He didn't have to worry so much about it anymore. Earthquakes were earthquakes, they hurt but you couldn't stop them, and they happened all the time in small bursts so there was no point in worrying about them. He didn't even know why he was thinking about them right now, it seemed stupid. He should have been asleep right now, damn it, not worrying about...

"_R... Rom... Roma-!"_ Worrying about...? _"R-Romano!" _What the he-?

Seborga's voice broke into screaming, and Romano was only half-awake in the dark before the earth moved and the pain washed him away.

* * *

At 11:11 PM Central European Time on November 4th, a seven-point-eight magnitude earthquake struck the Republic of Italy in the heart of the Veneto Region, half way between the cities of Venice and Verona.

The tremor released shock-waves across the northern half of the nation before triggering a second quake down the eastern back of the Apennine mountains. It was all over in three and a half minutes.

Or rather, it was just beginning.

* * *

America didn't feel it, but with his global surveillance he was the one to get the word out. The second nation was Slovenia, because she couldn't remember the last time an earthquake had shaken her out of her bed, let alone come out of the west from Italy. The Balkans and Greece were all up within the hour.

Canada's boss wouldn't let him leave the country again, but relief efforts were mustered before they even knew where exactly the blow had landed. China was calm and direct in his commands to push into the west and deposit whatever aid he could, even when Japan urged him to be more careful about stepping into the EU's territory.

France was staying on Corsica- so he _did_ feel it, and that alone terrified him even without the call from Spain. England and Prussia were already with him, and while the German tried to get himself back to Venice the other two concentrated on waking up their governments.

Russia and Switzerland discussed, very quietly, and rather civilly, how best to approach the situation.

Spain didn't know what to do with himself. Romano woke up and went straight into the worst convulsions he'd seen in centuries before laying dazed and confused on the bed. Seborga's body was so brittle it bruised just from the Spaniard trying to help him sit up, and San Marino had vomited blood just before collapsing in a dead faint.

The military responded promptly and San Marino's boss called within the hour, demanding the Micro-nation's return as soon as possible. Italy's boss ordered it done without hesitation, because there was already a cry for aid coming from the east coast. The military stationed two armed guards outside the house to protect the remaining personae, and Spain was only allowed to stay because Romano was lucid enough to ask for him by his human name.

Italian officials reached the house in Rome before anyone could make contact with Germany- and he called an hour later from Berlin. Germany had been talking to Spain just before it happened, but nobody could deal with what he told them. They couldn't comprehend how he'd returned to his capitol when he should have been at Italy's side.

Even after word of Veneziano's disappearance got out, no one knew what to do about it. They had everything else to worry about first.

* * *

"_Heaven above, what happened?"_

It took several long, terrible minutes after he woke up before the Vatican City State realized that he wasn't in Venice anymore. He was in Rome. He was in the sanctuary of Saint Peter's Basilica and he was laying in a pool of ice-cold water, his clothing drenched and his body inexplicably sore. It hurt to breathe.

One of his people was there with him, a relatively young member of the Curia. He was someone who actually had citizenship in the Vatican's domain, a human who qualified as one of his _'children'_.

"_Sir, please. Can you hear me?"_ He was in the sanctuary, the holy heart of his enclave. He was not in Venice. He was not standing in front of several hundred of Veneziano's people. He was not preaching to the masses or listening to the rain outside. He was in Rome.

"It... It collapsed..." The noise. He could remember the noise now, the grinding churn of the stones as the earth buckled and screamed. "The water..." It had surged up over the thresh-hold of the cathedral, but then it had climbed higher- or maybe they'd just sunk lower. Water had come in through the shattered windows and the electric lights and wavering candles had been snuffed out all at once. "The people..." Four, five, six hundred people. He couldn't remember how many had come to that Mass, he couldn't remember the sermon, he just remembered the people.

"S-Should you really be standing already?" And now he was being asked a foolish and overly sentimental question.

"Is His Holiness aware of the situation?" Vatican remembered the people of Venice. The ones who had been crushed and drowned when their most precious sanctum collapsed and sank into the flood-waters. He didn't care if it was too soon for him to be walking around.

"Situation?"

"...I must speak with my master. Lead me and do not speak." No speaking, not after all of those screams...

* * *

"What... what happened?" Earthquakes didn't strike the north, they were a southern problem. Romano couldn't wrap his foggy head around it. "He can't... he doesn't know..." Building codes were building codes, you didn't build skyscrapers one way in the south and a different way in the north- did you? Romano couldn't even remember, he just had them turn on the news and show him the destruction in Pisa and the chaos in Florence. Romano stared at the flashing images and let the reality sink in.

He was dead.

Veneziano had to be dead.

He couldn't survive something like this.

"He can't be dead..."

They'd expected something bad, but this... this was worse. Roads torn up and tunnels collapsed, rail-lines twisted and tied in broken knots. Apartment buildings had pancaked and old office towers crumbled. It rained glass in the streets of Milan and all the vandals and chaos of the previous months were forgotten in the wake of the fires in Bologna.

"There're no faults in North Italy..." He was _flat_ for God's sake. "There're no fault lines... How did this...? _Why_ is this..?" Why like this? Of all the ways for his brother to go, why like _this?_

The geologists were arguing and the architects were taking the blame. The government was sent scrambling and Romano didn't have any answers for the officials who stood in his bedroom and tried to make him talk. He let them stick a thermometer in his mouth and check his blood-pressure with a medical cuff, answering when he could about soreness or stiffness or anything else that might indicate another quake. Rome was fine, but everything to the north...

Oh god, Romano felt_ fine..._

"I... I know you're not really human," said the geologist who had arrived some time after three in the morning. Romano hadn't changed out of his night clothes but at least he could sit up on the bed now. Seborga was asleep in front of him, his head resting in Romano's lap and arms around his waist. There were too many people around the bed, he had to get to his office but instead he was surrounded by Spain, a state doctor, a guard, two economists and the geologist. "But you sort of _are_ human, so..."

So what? Get to the point...

"Mr. South Italy, sir... is your fever doing any better?"

"My what?" He hadn't even thought of it yet, but he looked over at the physician who was standing there still holding the thermometer from before. The man wasn't supposed to diagnose Romano or prescribe anything, but just keep a close eye on his symptoms in case anything changed. The doctor looked uncomfortable, but he answered.

"...It's almost gone." That didn't make any sense...

"Maybe it was stress related?" Stress... Why did the geologist look so relieved? "You say you've been worrying about something terrible in the north and now tonight is happening. I know that's not how it works for humans, but, geologically speaking..." An earthquake in the north relieved pressure on the south...

Oh.

The aches, the soreness, the shivering, the _blindness_...

Tectonic pressure, fault line fractures, shifts in water-tables, noxious gasses...

Not an economic crisis: _geologic symptoms._

"...I did this."

"Romano." Spain piped up, moving from his spot at the wall and quickly sitting down on the edge of the bed, taking Romano's hand despite the tension that shot through the assembled humans. They didn't like that another nation was here, seeing their country like this, but Romano could barely hear or see any of them over the loud ringing that started up in his head. "That's not what he's saying, this isn't your fault."

"I've been worrying about him," he whispered. "And only him. I wasn't considering anything else, and now-" Romano stopped talking, not because Spain was there with a hand on his shoulder, but because the arms wrapped around his waist tightened slowly and he looked down at Seborga nuzzling against his hip.

Romano couldn't breathe.

He'd scream if he breathed.

"He knows you tried..." The Micro-nation murmured, taking a deep breath before Romano felt him start to slowly sit up. He had one shaking hand on his little brother's head, letting it slip down to his shoulder and squeeze tightly as Seborga pulled the blankets away trying to get up. "And you're still trying, right?"

"Of course, idiot." Romano scolded, his voice so much weaker than it should have been, he could barely hear himself. Seborga's green eyes were so cloudy and his body kept trembling when he spoke too, but for different reasons. What kind of power was necessary to shake a nation from one edge to the other? Not letting go of his little brother, Romano pulled on the blankets until there was room for Seborga to sink back down onto the mattress next to him, the younger one's eyes closed as a weak groan crept out of his throat.

"Don't move so much- what's your hurry?"

"I feel better..." Liar. "No, really... There's... aid. I can feel it..."

"Fucking Micro-nations..." Romano swore, but he rubbed one hand back and forth over Seborga's back, as much for his own benefit as for his brother's. Looking up trying to find the financial agents; one of them had his eyes closed and was pressing his bluetooth into his ear like he was hearing God's murmurs. "What's he talking about?"

"International aid already?" The other economist whispered, waiting for his friend with the earpiece to say something. Finally, the first one nodded.

"Yes, the French Armed Forces are already moving, and the Red Cross in Switzerland is getting ready to-"

"Shit, I have to get back to the office." Romano interrupted, reaching around and gesturing for Spain to get off the bed so he could stand up. The Spaniard just frowned.

"Romano, that's not a good-"

"Think carefully before you speak again, Spain." Romano's words were a warning, not viscous, but still clear. They'd been living like people for too long over the last few weeks, and Romano wasn't mad about that, but he wanted to snap Spain back to reality. Romano was a nation, a nation that had just been hit with a catastrophic event. His body was still in pain, but most of that was being carried by his brothers: Seborga and Veneziano in the north, and San Marino in the east. Rome itself had barely felt anything, and the fire that had raced down Romano's spine hadn't been as bad as the nausea and rampant emotion that had torn through his body like a cold wind.

He was a nation, and now other nations were rushing in to help him. He couldn't just sit at home in his bed while French and Swiss and Austrian and Slovenian forces moved in on him. And more nations would follow, dozens more were already on their way with doctors and supplies and economic relief. Italy didn't have to rush out guns-blazing to meet them, but he had to pull himself together so they knew where to go, god damn it. He had to be ready in Rome and watch and make sure nothing went awry with his people. He had a fucking obligation- this was the whole reasons he even existed!

One quick, sharp, simple verbal warning was all Spain needed to recognize all of this, otherwise he never would have stood up so easily and let Italy get up out of bed. He couldn't move too quickly or else his head would start spinning, but he was up, and Seborga was saying something to the humans still scattered around the room watching.

Pants and a clean shirt and a comb through his hair, hands shaking all the while. He didn't need a tie and he dressed himself simply- a jacket he could move in, trousers that would let him run and that he wouldn't care if they became stained or ruined, and boots to protect his feet. No tie, no cufflinks, no nothing that he didn't need. He pushed all of the guilty, useless things out of his cloudy mind as he dressed, swallowing the painful lumps in his throat because crying wasn't going to fix anything.

"How can I help?" Spain obviously gave it some thought before he spoke again, just like Italy had said. "What can the Kingdom of Spain do to help the Republic of Italy?" He paused to consider the question, swallowing nausea again and making himself think instead of just shutting down the bad thoughts.

Finally, he answered:

"Keep your phone on, contact Madrid, and send aid."

* * *

**The earthquake that struck North Italy on May 20****th**** was only a 6.4, not the 7.8 featured here. At least 7 people died within the first 24 hours, and there was far-reaching damage across the eastern region in roughly the same place as this mega-quake's epicentre. The actual event occurred on May 20th, but I planned this arc in February and wrote it in April.**

**People reading this story now for the first time obviously know that I continued, but for three weeks leading up to this chapter's publication I nearly took Recovery down and discontinued it over this issue. I love fanfiction, and I love Hetalia, and I love my readers and my writing: but fictionalizing an event that actually _happened_ still makes me uneasy sometimes when I think about it. ********Vancouver eats 6.5 earthquakes like popcorn, the last earthquake we had in April 2012 made the fifth slot on the news right before the weather lady showed a cute picture of her dog. Having people in a developed nation **_**lose their lives**_** in a similar event in Italy was eye-opening for me.****  
**

**When I wrote this chapter I based the strength of the quake on the 1909 Great San Francisco Earthquake which levelled the city and has been a benchmark for West-Coast quakes in America and Canada for over a hundred years. I thought I took into account that North Italy, unlike the South, does not build and prepare for earthquakes because all the research I pulled up only showed, as Romano said, several decades of little-to-no serious earthquake activity even in the more volatile southern region.**

**I was wrong.**

**So, just keep it in mind, if you can, that as fun as Hetalia is, sometimes fact and fiction can come a little too close for comfort. **

**Thank you, now hopefully you will still be able to read on and continue enjoying my story.**

**-Reposted October 19th, 2012.**


	12. Heroic Tragedies

**Starvation, Heart of Fire, No Turning Back, Safe and Sound, 21 Guns, probably some others why did I delete this list...?**

**Hello, Act 2 of this story! So glad everyone's still reading. As a progress-update for those of you not on Tumblr: I'm currently working on chapters 17 and 18 right now, so if I start whining about another double-update be sure to scold me for it. **

**Hope you enjoy this chapter, it's one of my favourites.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Heroic Tragedies

If a disaster was going to strike, you wanted it to happen at night. Not night as the sun rose or night by the charges on your phone plan, but night by Society's pattern of work and sleep. Because if a disaster was going to strike, you wanted to know where your family was going to be, and you wanted them to be as close to you as possible.

You didn't want your children to be at school with too few teachers and too many peers.

You didn't want your parents to be at work across the river.

You didn't want your best friends to be sitting on a train under the city streets.

You wanted them to be at home, in their beds, fast asleep, so that when disaster struck and the world was torn apart, you'd know where all the little pieces were and could dig them all up at once out of the rubble. You wanted them to have food and shelter and clothes, even if the shelter had collapsed and the food began to spoil and the clothes were filthy and torn and buried under the rest of their lives.

If disaster was going to strike then you wanted it to happen at night, and as soon as it hit you wanted the sun to come up and show you what had happened. You wanted to know that the world would keep spinning and that time would keep moving, and that everything that remained wasn't about to be lost and consumed in the darkness that had taken everything else.

But the people of Verona couldn't just _wait_ for the sun.

"Hey! Over here!"

Not every building collapsed, not every house lost its foundations. The red tiles that made up the rooves of the city were scattered across the ground, entire blocks of houses slanting to the side and holding one another up- or pushing each other over. It was hard to walk without tripping over stones or shattered tile, but it was harder still with only flashlights and small fires to see by. The power grid was down, this didn't surprise anyone, in fact it probably kept unintentional fires from sparking and spreading through the debris. It made the night very dark, and very scary.

A residential neighbourhood, even one in distress, was a wealth of resources in a crisis. With a 'camp' built close to a main road and safe from any listing buildings, several families pooled their energy and gathered food, water, bedding and anything else that could be quickly pulled from their destroyed homes. First-aid kits and extra batteries and someone's pocket radio, canned goods and jars of preserves, spare clothes and containers for filling with fresh water. When a neighbour came running down the lane calling for help, shouting that someone was trapped under the rubble, there was no hesitation to hurry after them and help.

"Please! I can't reach them, they're just-!" A section of fallen wall and the glow of a flashlight reflecting off broken glass. "I told him to wait for help, but then we heard-"

"_Mama!_" A child and a young man. When the rescuers got there they could look down the narrow gap in the rubble and see the two victims wedged under the debris. Someone was sent running to try and find more help from the other neighbourhoods, and a cell-phone was used to try and figure out if they were in the right part of the city to get help from the army yet- or any help at all.

The child was crying loudly but the young man had his arm wrapped around the little girl's torso, keeping her safe where he was braced on his knees, shoulders pressed up against the solid chunk of wall bearing down on them. When the rescuers shone the light down all they could see was the pink the girl was wearing and the man's yellow nightshirt. Was he really holding that weight up by himself? There must have been some other kind of support.

"No! No I'm scared! _Mama!_" There was space for the girl to crawl and the rescuers started ripping and tearing away at the entrance, using just their bare hands and whatever makeshift tools they could find from the rubble around them. _"Please don't make me go!_" The actual opening was only a few inches wide, but after a few minutes of fast digging one of the men got down on his chest and reached his hand through the jagged mouth.

"Let's go, sweetheart!" The child was holding the flashlight now and shaking her head quickly, fighting to hold onto the arm the young man was trying to unwind from around her. "You just have to crawl a little ways! C'mon!"

"_No!"_ The man flinched suddenly and the rescuer tried to get his own light angled properly to see what was wrong. Before he could see anything, the girl cried: "He's hurt! Send help!"

"We _are_ the help, and we need to get you both out of there, okay?" It wasn't safe for them to stay down there, one aftershock and- "Young man, are you alright?"

"He can't talk! He's hurt!"

"It's okay! We have a doctor!" No they didn't, but one of the people in their neighbourhood was a nurse, and that was almost the same thing right now. "Sweetheart it's okay, you just have to crawl up and he'll be right behind you, alright? We're gonna get you out." The rescuer was just a banker, he didn't know how to talk somebody through a crisis, nevermind a child... "So come on, it's okay, just take my hand..." It was a long ways between his hand and hers, but the rescuer didn't pull his arm back and the others kept digging, kept trying to open up the jagged pit keeping the pair trapped inside...

It took another twenty minutes before the little girl was safe in her mother's arms again, but it was clear that the young man wasn't coming out as easily. If he moved then that concrete slab was going to fall right down on his legs...

"Listen just- just hang on! Help is coming!" Was help coming? There had to be something they... "Give me that."

"What?"

The rescuer pointed at a short, thick timber beam resting in the light of a dropped flashlight. It was about two feet long and splintered at one end, thick and cumbersome. The other man he spoke to quickly fetched it and the rescuer stripped off his jacket, swearing at himself under his breath.

"No way, no, you're not seriously-"

"Where's the army? How long are they gonna take?" He was just a banker, just a banker, just a banker... "Do you have a bulldozer parked nearby that we don't know about? I'll fit, just give it-"

"You're crazy." Yeah, yeah he was, but he could see the pained, confused expression on the man's face trapped down in that filthy hole and he knew this was the right decision. Climb down, prop up the slab, climb back up, get the guy to climb out after. It didn't have to hold for very long, just long enough...

_'I don't know him..._' He looked like a student, maybe, or a tourist. His left arm was wrapped in bandages and his hair looked slightly red under the dust; he was dressed for sleep and bleeding from several small scratches down his arms and back. _'But he climbed down there and saved that little girl... I can do this...'_

If a disaster was going to strike, you wanted it to happen at night. You wanted everyone you knew and cared about to be safely within reach so that if they needed your help, you could give it immediately. You wanted your neighbours to become your family so that that family could protect itself. You wanted to have someone close by to hold you in the dark until the sun came up and showed you that the world, your world, was shaken, and damaged, and unsafe...

"Hang on, I'm coming."

But that that world was still there. And that that family was too.

* * *

"I have two crush injuries! Make way!"

"Four more incoming, one lost vitals en-route."

"Every bed! We need every bed!"

"Where's that medivac!-?"

In a private hospital, you weren't supposed to receive treatment unless you had insurance to pay for your care. The medical staff in Florence's largest private institute knew this, but they were also aware that the Hospital Chief had already stated that he was willing to lose his job tonight if it meant saving even one extra life.

The Emergency Room was flooded, the operating rooms were full to bursting, the east wing was listing dangerously to one side and all patients had been removed from the unsafe oncology department. But the danger didn't stop nurses and technicians from racing through the cracked hallways looking for supplies. Beds, breathing machines, blankets, medications- from simple headache and fever medicine to life-saving penicillin and morphine, anything they could carry was pulled off shelves and out of store rooms.

They couldn't tell non-critical patients to get up and leave the hospital at half past three in the morning, but those who could give up their bed did so to lie on blankets in hallways, or take up chairs in waiting rooms. When the hospital's back-up generators finally kicked in, technicians went scrambling to boot up machines and reprogram frazzled diagnostic tools. Stranded ambulances kept in radio contact with the major hospitals throughout the city, paramedics either digging their way through broken streets or abandoning their vehicles to help find victims on foot.

The hospital was the brain of the emergency state. Firefighters, police, construction workers, preachers, electricians, engineers: everybody knew somebody who was injured, and in the family-only areas that was where previously off-duty police officers finally made contact with their superiors. Firemen spoke to paramedics out in the field and bridged the communication gap to halls and fire engines throughout the city, and military officers from the Florentine base brought information regarding when and where the government would begin distributing aid.

People were frightened and in tears, but no longer panicking. Victims clung to one another in prayer circles and adopted the lost and abandoned into their families without hesitation. When a young medical student gave up her bed despite the bandages wrapped over her left eye and the cast over her leg to help a father with his sick child, that was humanity.

"Time of death, four-thirty-six."

The surgeons and nurses didn't have much time for humanity though, they could barely feel time passing in the blood and noise. Every time there was a moment of peace in the chaos, they would hear a distant siren or watch the Emergency Room doors burst open with more struggling victims. This time it was an ambulance, the lead paramedic pushing the swinging doors open while pulling the first of three gurneys behind her.

"Four coming through! John Doe: GSW to the leg and upper torso." GSW? Gun Shot Wound? _Tonight?_ "Jane Doe: GSW with a punctured lung," no, no this wasn't happening, it wasn't possible for another shooting _tonight_ of all- "John Doe: lost vitals in the field, blunt trauma to the head, possible skull fracture, lacerations on his right arm and torso."

"Where's number four? And what about the shooter?" The first surgeon there stepped up, letting a nurse take the first John through, voices rising as the previous wave of patients was shuffled and pushed as far out of the ER as they could manage. The paramedic just gave her a sharp look, the woman's lips twisting before she rolled her eyes and looked back out into the pre-dawn shadows, the ambulance lights twirling outside as the third gurney came rolling in.

The surgeon didn't see anything but a pair of legs, then the person crouched on top of the body formed from the twilight, both palms braced down on the victim's chest, pumping firmly while someone else pushed the gurney inside. The man doing compressions was wearing a jacket, but otherwise looked like he'd just rolled out of bed with his messy red hair and bare feet. The victim he was trying to save had a pair of metal handcuffs keeping his wrists attached to the gurney. The surgeon could barely hear the lead paramedic's voice over the chaos.

"You walk into a blown out restaurant with a bunch of bullets and _one_ _guy_ covered in bruises?" The shooter. On a night like this someone was soulless enough to go on a rampage, and more than that, the paramedics had brought him _back._ "No gun, but if it weren't for that kid on his chest I would of just left him behind."

"Who...?" Things were moving very fast and leaving the surgeon behind, but as the third victim passed her by she caught a glimpse of the kid's face, the one fighting to keep him alive. He really was young, filthy too with all the dust and blood on him. The jacket wasn't his and under it he just had a yellow night shirt and a pair of shorts on. But he was staring down at the shooter's unconscious face like it meant everything in the world to get him breathing again. As someone shouted for them to clear a bed and prep a team for surgery, the surgeon standing there heard the paramedic's words like a dream.

"Fourth John Doe. He won't say a word, but by the time we got there he'd put a tourniquet on the first John's leg and had a compress over Jane's bullet wound." Something about him... that intensity, that earnest expression...

"...Did it save them?"

"You bet." Something _about_ him...

"We took oaths." The surgeon said, and then she started walking, patting the paramedic on the arm to show that her part was done now, and that it was up to the hospital to finish the job. "Let's make it three-for-three."

* * *

In a crisis, most people chose to behave like heroes.

That's not to say that they suddenly became persons who jumped in front of buses, or climbed up trees to rescue kittens, but there were different kinds of heroes. The kind most people become in a crisis is the one that's so determined to survive that there's no sense or logic in targeting others. They may not always help one another, but in a crisis most people would choose not to lash out and harm others.

But this was a choice.

"On your knees!_ Move!"_

And not all men made it.

The store behind them was on fire, the dawn light touching the eastern sky over Milan. The horizon itself was hidden by the towering structures and piles of rubble making up this quarter of Italy's largest metropolis. The street was eerily silent, because either the neighbourhood surrounding the tiny, still-standing business was empty, or the witnesses were too scared to come out.

"Please stop! My family!"

He'd made a mistake. After the noise and the fear of the Earthquake they hadn't left their home: it was still standing above the shop they made their living from. Some neighbours had fled, others perhaps had died, but they had all agreed to wait for the dawn, to hide in their homes and wait for the police or the army or whoever came first to rescue them in this country. But he had made a mistake; he had heard looters, not the army, and shouting at them to leave his livelihood alone had brought him to this:

"Shut up, Rag-head!" On his knees, then on his side as one of them kicked him. Them: the angry young Italian-born men who had been tearing apart displays and ransacking the empty cash register. Them: the wild men taking advantage of the fear and the chaos. Them: the ones who had gone upstairs to his wife and his child, dragging his son out and throwing him on the ground, ripping off his wife's veil and slapping her while she screamed.

Now they were all out here on the broken concrete, smoke from the fire blowing past their heads. There was blood on his wife's face and she was crying, hugging their son to keep him down, the teenager thrashing and swearing- broken Arabic and Italian mingling in the air. He could hear the looters laughing, but his ears were ringing too loudly from the blow to his head to hear them properly.

This was not the country he brought his family to.

These were not the neighbours he had lived next to for twenty years.

One of his ears popped, and he could hear his son's screaming voice:

"_I __**am**__ Italian! I was fucking born here!_"

That didn't matter: his skin was brown, his religion was different, the accent from his parents' tongue was painted over his words. Nothing mattered, just that they were different; they weren't like these men and now that something had gone wrong it was all their fault. They were taking the blame and the black gun in the white morning light was going to deal the punishment. Just or unjust, it didn't matter.

"_That's right, try to run!_" No-

"_I'll put the first one in your knee, and the next one-_" No!

Take his money-

Take his home-

Not his son-

_Please-!_

"-the fuck are you?"

There were four, five men with guns and loot from the burning shop. There was him and his wife on their knees beaten and sobbing. There was his son who'd been scrambling back on all fours to escape. And now there was the man standing in between the weapon and the frightened teen, a man with red hair and no shoes, a suit jacket thrown over his shoulders and bandages wrapped up and down his left arm.

The challenger didn't answer the question, he just stared over the gun at the looter and raised his chin slightly. It was an unspoken question and a serious demand, familiarity running off him like the sunlight blooming in the east. They knew who he was, they all did: the looters with their weapons, the immigrant couple on the ground, their son laying on the pavement. He was familiar, they couldn't remember his name, but they _knew_ him...

"Get out of the way."

He didn't move.

"I said fuck off!"

He didn't do that either. Instead, one of the other men made a terrible sound; a sob ripping up his throat before he dropped the goods he'd ripped from the store, his gun hitting the shattered concrete before he took off running in the opposite direction. The others spoke quickly amongst themselves but their leader didn't take his eyes off the man in front of him.

From the corner of his eye, the man on the ground saw movement between the buildings on their street.

"You think you're some kind of hero?"

More movement; faces, bodies, hands, heads with curly brown hair, and straight black, and wavy blonde…

"I'll shoot you first, damn it! Get out of my way!"

Hands holding weapons: iron pipes, timber beams, chunks of concrete.

Another looter lost his nerve, slowly turning out his pockets so the stolen money came tumbling to his feet, the gun-belt he'd found somewhere else slowly finding its way to the ground. He had his hands up slightly as he backed away, but he froze when he turned and saw the crowd forming behind them.

"This fucking country can't even keep its wackos locked up_- fine!"_ The hammer on the gun came down, a dramatic click that just caused the quiet one to lift both eyebrows at once. His eyes hadn't been quiet open, now they were wide and staring: contempt and anger were boiling under the light copper. Tension was written into the lines of his shoulder and spine, and he lowered his head like a dog preparing to bite an offensive hand.

_Bang!_

His wife screamed and their son jumped to his feet with an outraged yell, but the strange, silent, familiar man reached out and grabbed the teen by the arm before he could throw himself at the gunman. It was impossible to the eye: he was shot but he didn't fall, just stumbled, his blood forming a red cloud that hung for a split-second in the dawn light behind him. That one hand acted on its own and stopped the fifteen-year-old dead in his tracks, and the crowd reacted instead.

It was over before it started. None of the guns had a chance to go off; pipes swung and voices yelled, rocks flew to chase the looters who retreated. The man who took the brunt of it didn't get a chance to die however, there were neighbours surrounding the family, holding husband and wife and child safe behind arms and worried chatter, but their assailant wasn't killed.

He was beaten, and bones were broken, and his face was bloody, and he couldn't move or speak, but he did not die. The same silent man pulled the mob apart without a word before it could happen. Gestures with bloody fingers and the scuff of his bare feet sent people away; he brought the neighbourhood together and redirected them to the fire. Find a water main, find buckets, find anything to help stop the blaze from spreading. Find food for the family, bring clothes, gather the money, erect a shelter.

Without words that was what he told them to do.

That was what the country they loved told the heroes to do.

* * *

**So there was supposed to be a fourth scene in this chapter since I had two page-breaks right after each other, but I can't find anything drafted, and the only thing in the spare content was a ridiculously sad prompt for a train wreck. I really don't want to write someone dying in a tight, airless metal heap with Italy there holding their hand anymore. Holy hell, Self, that's just depressing. And it was cooked up before the real earthquake anyways, so nyah, no, we don't need that…**

**Thank you so much for your kind comments last week, guys, they really meant a lot to me. I'll see you all next Sunday!**


	13. Second Response

**Starvation, Breath of Life, This is Where I Fall, Lift Me Up, Stronger than Ever, Frozen Heart and Death of Parents, Eden, Decision of the Loved.**

**I can see the eeeeend of this story! It is a beautiful sight! However, it's also a lot of chapters, and where I'm currently working with 17 and the end of 19 I'm only comfortably, say, 2/3rds of the way through? It's give-or-take in some places but I'm still plowing ahead. All is good (except 17, because Spain you suck...)**

**Now have a happy chapter :3**

**Title was originally "First" Response but then I realized Italy kinda took that role last chapter...**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Second Response

"I want every available unit there, in Italy, within the next twenty-four hours."

"Excuse me?"

"And set up a public relief fund- whatever the British people give the government will match!"

"_Absolutely not!_"

England grunted and stood a little straighter, gripping his cane so he wasn't tempted to place his fingers around the Prime Minister's neck and squeeze until the little human did what he said. The upright man on the couch was irritated with being woken up in the middle of the night by his nation barging into the house, but England was determined to get the wheels turning _now_, not later.

So he'd woken up the Prime Minister's household. And so help him he'd wake up the Royal Family too if he had to. In fact he fully intended to stop by Windsor Castle before going anywhere else.

"Now listen here," Oh, England did not like being spoken to like a simpleton. And he didn't like having his Prime Minister stand up and usher him into a seat the nation refused to take, he walked around the chair instead of sinking down into it. "I know you've been feeling a bit off since September, and I've been patient waiting for you to get back on your feet."

_'Back on my feet? Wait until I box your ears, then we'll see who can walk a straight-_'

"But you can't come in here making wild demands. I understand that there's a situation in Italy, but you can't act as if we suddenly owe them everythi-"

"Well we do!" England shouted, and the Prime Minister scoffed.

"Nonsense." England just wanted to throttle the man. Usually they got on so well but right now- "An _appropriate _response plan is being drafted tonight, something the tax payers can afford, and tomorrow-"

"_Tonight!"_

"_Tomorrow._" How patronizing. How humiliating to carry on like a child and be shut _down_ like a _child_. "Really now, what's gotten into you? Sit down."

"I would prefer to stand."

"And I would rather you sit. _England_." Curse the man for sounding reasonable. England had one hand holding the back of the chair, aware of how defensive he suddenly felt, watching but refusing to obey his boss as the man gestured for him to take the seat. Again, he refused.

"At least tell me what's going on." No. "You haven't answered a single question about last summer, or what all of that UN nonsense was back in September." Of course he hadn't... "I thought sending you to Venice for a few days would clear your mind, but instead you were gone for nearly two weeks."

"That was unintentional." England really had meant to come home after only a few days in the Italian city. At least he'd kept in touch with London. "But this is important-"

"You're right, it _is_ important. Now sit down so we can discuss this." England did not _want_ to sit. "I thought you said magic like yours couldn't effect entire nations." Oh no...

"It can't."

"Then what's going _on?"_ England wanted to rebuke the man and shut down the topic, but he found himself struggling with the concept instead. Oh dear... "I don't need to quote the geology journals to you, anyone who knows anything about what happened last night knows that-"

"I know how the science works." The nation interrupted, but he didn't know where to take his statement after that. "But what you're asking for... the explanation you want-"

"Give it to me, England, or I swear you personally will never set foot off this island again."

Since coming home in September England had been, at best, vague about everything. They couldn't afford to have their human leaders see the nations as a liability rather than a strength. To be locked up in towers or prisons was suffocating; England had run away from his own kings in the past, and America had faked names, and Spain had acted like a stowaway on ships. The age of Democracy had heralded a new era where nations and their people worked together, and the governments were finally able to listen to the will of both masters and servants.

So how could he tell his Prime Minister, the man whose authority came from a Queen selected by God and Country to rule accordingly, that because one Italian citizen had been tormented, the entire northern half of the Republic was collapsing? The western nations would find themselves in chains and cybernetic prisons before it was time for tea...

"Sir, do you..." Oh, he hadn't called one of his bosses 'sir' in such a long time. England cleared his throat nervously, hating himself for it as he tugged on his tie and shifted his weight over his feet and cane. "Do you believe in the Divine Right of Kings?"

"What?" The British Prime Minister looked stumped, maybe even a little disgusted. "Have you been speaking to the Prince again? No, of course not. Divine Right has its place but not on any throne."

"Good." He answered, aware that his voice was faint. But it wasn't because he didn't know what else to say. On the contrary; England could finally feel the words bubbling up inside of him. The frustration was working its way through the discomfort and fear, and when the nation looked up at its leader again, England spoke: "Then you understand that no one in the Italian government, or any member of the Swiss administration, has had anything to do with these events over the last few months."

It wasn't a question, but it wasn't quite a statement either. He simply said it, and he watched the man in shirtsleeves sit there and give him a bizarre, confused kind of look.

"Well, those riots in Italy-"

"Were not born from the government. Do you understand this?"

"I..." It was an uncomfortable pledge, but England refused to bend and he kept his eyes focused squarely on the little man. "I suppose. Yes. You're right. It's not as if they were protesting anything the government had actually done." England nodded, and he let his voice rise a bit more, struggling to keep it low and calm.

"Then that's all you need to know concerning the why of the situation." Why this was happening, why the chaos, why England and so many other nations had journeyed to Venice for two weeks and done nothing of real, solid, political value while they were there. England kept staring and he reached deep down inside of himself as he formed words and spoke again. He wasn't looking for magic.

"But in the wake of this tragedy, if you still think that we don't owe it to North Italy to provide them with everything we've got, then you're wrong. And if you still think that nations like myself can't die, then respectfully, sir, you need to open up a history book and take a good, long look at what's inside." England wasn't looking for _magic_, he didn't want spells and chanting, or incantations and glowing lights. He was interested in something else, something warm and thick, a heavy kind of power sleeping within the walls of his chest, one he hadn't really needed since the Age of Democracy had dawned, since the final bombs of the Second World War had quieted down in the night...

"North Italy saved my life," Even if he'd wanted to, the British Prime Minister could not look away from England as he spoke. This was real power. "He saved my people, he saved my culture, and my laws, and my heroes, and my traditions, and my monuments." This was the power every nation had over every citizen. It varied in strength depending on the constitution and the situation, but England was damned good with both his power and his words.

"He saved me, and I will protect him," The English were damned good with their words! "And you will never _dare_ to ask why, or how, or by what means you as a leader of one of the most powerful nations on this planet should be imposed upon to save the lives of your fellow man!"

He was Arthur Kirkland, he was the nation of England; the former British Empire; the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland; a member of the European Union, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, and the Council of Europe. Head of the British Commonwealth, one of only five nations with a permanent seat on the United Nations Security Council, England was one of _the most powerful nations on Earth._

"We will send _everything_ we have to North Italy." And he would use that power to make sure his tiny, temporary human master did what he said.

"Of course we will." The man blinked slowly before he found his voice, snapping out of a light daze and scowling before shaking his head in frustration. "Honestly, why would you even bring up something so basic? Get a move on, you can do a lot more than just stand there."

So with him out of the way, England bowed his head and went to go speak with his Queen.

He didn't need his cane.

* * *

"I hear one more report of shit-heads attacking immigrants and I'll put a bullet in their fucking brains!" Italy was not going to put up with this shit! One more riot and he'd go to Pisa and shut it down himself!

There was so much to do, arguably _too _much to handle. Restoring power, controlling industrial leaks and fires, and dealing with major infrastructure damage were the biggest problems right now. Teams of civilian and military engineers were being put together and supplemented by foreign aid, professionals who were either crossing borders on their own or coming with their nations for help pouring in from everywhere. Allocating resources, shipping supplies, communicating across international lines and organizing evacuations were all happening on the ground and high above in Rome. Italy was the one hurting in all of this, but like Japan a year before, Italy was taking the lead now.

He should have been losing his god-damned mind, but instead he was standing here getting shit done.

Wide-spread telecommunications were down: cables and electrical wires were fried across the nation. It would take several days to reconnect the masses inside the cities, nevermind the rural areas, but Seborga's friend Ladonia was coding like a freak in cyberspace and international resources were being spent on getting things back online. National and international networks were patching together feeds and links and databases to paint a picture of the Italian crisis zones, helping them visualize what was going on outside.

With this kind of help Italy could keep his head and focus on what his people and body were both telling him. It helped that he could just stand in the centre of the converted office in Florence's downtown quarter and soak up everything. It was a government complex in one of the hardest hit parts of the city, and with its close proximity to a nearby hospital and fire-hall, it made sense to transform it into a local command centre. Florence itself was actually on the other side of the Apennines, so it hadn't been ripped apart like Milan or Verona, but there had still been several days of chaos in the wake of the disaster.

To be honest there was still panic. Re-establishing electricity in buildings like this had been extremely important, back-up generators from Rome powering the screens and computers in front of Italy as he stood there in the centre. He could hear what was being said around him, it was uncanny, his attention neatly divided between the humans running around and the screens flashing and filling up with information. The hardware had been set up on a cluster of desks and shelves someone had put together as a display. Boxes of data were hovering around an image of the nation's geography on a blue back-drop. Red marks indicated reports of violence, yellow for serious fires, purple for sanitation nightmares, and a bunch of other colours for a bunch of other problems.

The sad thing was that, aside from a handful of reports of people getting scared in the night or tiny groups going to town in commercial districts, looting and rioting had more or less dropped off the map after the quake. It had been three nights ago, and Italy didn't know whether to be proud or pissed off with his people.

The Mafia had already made contact with him too, right before he'd reached his office this morning and then left again for the military compound where everything was being coordinated. Fucking crime lords and their fucking ideals. Seemed somebody's god-father had a heart of black gold and it didn't matter what answer Italy gave them: the people were already accepting mafia aid, mob money, expensive protection, and seedy opportunities to escape or even benefit from the chaos. It was disgusting, but it was a problem he couldn't spare the time or resources right now to work on shutting down. If it kept people from panicking or killing one another, then he had to let it go.

He'd regret it later, but for now the blood money flowed.

"Patch me in with those guys in San Marino. I want an update, damn it!" Military and civilian personnel were working at stations around him, establishing connections and coordinating relief efforts. There were flags on maps pinned and strung up between desks, each one showing the locations of various camps foreigners had set up in a number of Italy's cities. French, American, Swiss, Austrian, Canadian, British, Slovenian, Spanish, Portuguese and plenty of others all dotted those maps, and they all meant aid.

Germany was mixed up in there too.

Not because Italy wanted them there, but-

"Marino, where the fuck are you!"

"_Right where I'm supposed to be, little brother."_ _Ass_. There was no screen for San Marino's face, just his voice filtering into Italy's headset. He sounded breathless and ill, but he was as pleasant as ever. _"Before you ask, I'm feeling better. What about Seborga?"_

"Shut up about him, he's fine." Doing remarkably well too. He was too far away from the epicentre to stay down for very long, and he'd reported no deaths. "Have you seen him?" There was no point in clarifying who Italy meant.

"_Beg all you want, if I find Veneziano first I'm keeping him as close as I can. I'm not sending him over the mountains to visit you up north."_

_If _he found him, which meant no, he hadn't yet.

"Keep me informed."

"_No need, you'll call again."_

_ASS._

The room's chatter was cut off behind him just as Italy terminated the connection with his brother. Folding his arms stiffly, he tried focusing on the information speeding by him, hoping to lose himself in the data. He heard an awkward gait and the scuff of a cane over the talking, so that meant he was about to see either England or-

"Tell me something," or Switzerland, someone Italy hadn't spoken to face-to-face in months.

"What?"

"Why do you think the people are so calm?" Italy turned when he heard that, giving the blonde a harsh stare where Switzerland's green eyes were high, watching the screens and scrolling totals. He was dressed for military action, as he always was, but the cane bellied the presence of the blue UN helmet under his arm.

"You call this _calm?_" Italy demanded, not sure why he didn't toss a swear in there for effect.

"Compared to last month, yes." Switzerland's leg still ended too soon, something that no doubt threw the humans who saw him. Most of it was there, but he had no shoe on to hide the fact that most his ankle ended in a rounded stump. It was hard to regenerate limbs, but it was worse when your economic partner wasn't doing very well. "You were suffering with school shootings and random rioters, now you've got communities setting up temporary camps and strangers risking their lives to save one another."

"My brother is unstable, but that doesn't make him suicidal." Italy snapped, refusing to have this conversation right now. He rejected the cold dread in his gut, the gnawing pain of something he was convinced of but unable to acknowledge. Three days and no one had seen him... "Veneziano's people were confused, now they've got a goal: stay alive and rebuild."

"I heard singing on my way over here." Singing? "On the streets, people are singing the national anthem."

"So?" Was that supposed to be a bad thing?

"Where are you sending the evacuees?"

"Shit, Switzerland stop changing the subject."

"I'm not, it's a simple question." It was not _simple_, nothing right now was _simple_. "Where are you sending them?"

"I'm not sending them anywhere." Italy snapped, but then he twisted his shoulders uncomfortably, keeping his arms folded before he let out a heavy breath. This was hard, he wasn't used to this. So many people asking him questions, so much power and responsibility suddenly thrust in his hands... His brother was so much better at this; he was always so comfortable just telling their people what to do when they were confused. He kept his head better, now Italy was struggling to keep his above the water.

And Switzerland, for some fucking reason, was being patient with him.

"The sick and the injured are being transported south." Italy grunted. "Mostly to Rome, but other cities too." Families were being kept together as well as they could, and it was imperative that children separated from their parents weren't taken out of their cities or communes until relatives of any kind could be found to take them in. "We're trying not to disturb the populations, the damage is worse in the East than West."

The fires in Bologna weren't completely under control yet, but they were better than before. Milan had been hit hard, but it was coming down to engineering mistakes now instead of just God's wrath. Turin wasn't _fine_, but they hadn't been levelled like Verona. Northern cities weren't built to handle southern problems like earthquakes, so the shattered glass and toppled structures were the result of out-dated designs and the comfortable belief that the buildings would never experience that kind of stress. Most of the newer towers were actually still standing, but old quarters had been reduced to rubble. As for cities like Venice...

"It was unnatural." Italy turned and stared. Switzerland was looking at the screens in front of them, his uniform pressed and clean while the blue helmet he had was blazoned with the symbol of the Red Cross. But Italy stared, because that was the stupidest thing his neighbour could have said, and Switzerland knew it. It was in his eyes when he glanced back at the Italian and scoffed. "Earthquakes don't travel the way this one did. It shouldn't have been able to reach-"

"Get out." Not... get out of the country. Just the room. Get out of the room and don't talk to him right now. Italy couldn't make himself take his eyes off the other nation, but Switzerland's face didn't visibly change with the dismissal either. "I _don't_want to hear about it."

"You _do _know I'mthe Red Cross." It wasn't a threat. Italy had no idea how he was so sure of it, but he was. "I'm in the north and the south right now, helping. And what happened was unnatural."

"I know that."

"Do you?" What the hell was he getting at? Stupid mercenary cheese-eater. It took a lot of gall for him to make a statement like that and then meet Italy's eyes so boldly. "Because your people keep telling mine that they don't know why the North had to suffer like this. They keep asking why the earthquake didn't strike the South instead, because they know how to handle it better than the injured and the sick who are being transported down." He knew that, damn it. They were his people, Italy knew what they were thinking about! "So you need to understand that this wasn't your fault, because your people need their pride right now, not your guilt."

"Don't talk to me about guilt." It was hard to make the words come out as anything more than a whisper, but the two of them were watching each other now so he knew Switzerland understood him. "I don't blame you for what happened, I should, but I don't. So, Switzerland, if you-"

"Vash." Huh? The other nation turned his attention back towards the screens after boldly interrupting him like that, leaning heavily on the cane he was using in lieu of his missing foot. "Until this is over, I believe that any conversation dealing with _why_ this happened should be conducted on a first-name basis." What? "Unless you disapprove?"

Wait, was this Switzerland's nervous face? He'd never seen it before. Italy had never had to deal with him like this, that had always been someone else's job. He knew how to talk to Malta and Tunisia and Cyprus and nations like that, but south and central Europe had never been his-

Well now they were.

"Vash?"

"Zwingli, yes." Way to go making everything awkward, Swiss bastard. Italy found himself fidgeting with his arms crossed over his chest, barely listening to the chatter still going on around them. "But if you use it then I expect to be able to call you by your name in return." It was worded like a demand, but just like his earlier comment about being the Red Cross, Italy knew it wasn't a statement he had to be worried about. Human names weren't given out lightly, hell, they weren't given out at all.

"You mean Lovino Vargas?" The name the Vatican City had picked up without telling him how or where, but that everyone else had probably heard thanks to that damned journal. Where had that book gone in the chaos anyways?

"Yes, that one. It's easier."

"Easier than what?" Italy asked and then realized he didn't want to hear the answer, but it was too late. Switzerland was too blunt to hesitate when asked an uncomfortable question.

"Than trying to figure out if you're still South Italy, or the entire Italian Republic." Oh... "Unless you can tell me?"

Italy opened his mouth, then he stopped. He took a deep breath, then he held it. He turned to look over the heads of the people around him, trying to pick out the ones who were his and the ones who were not, but the only distinctions he could feel out right away were the French and the German and the Swiss nationals scattered around between desks and stations. His mouth was dry and he tried swallowing hard, almost coughing his way around the words jammed in his throat. He tried to speak again and he failed.

"What happens if you find him?" He refused to think of Switzerland as being '_kind'_ by pushing through the awkward silence with another question. Had he not just said he didn't want to talk about this?

"Take him to Rome and give him everything he needs to get better." But direct questions had easy answers.

"What happens if you _can't_ find him?" Even that one.

"Keep doing what I'm doing, and get my people back on their feet."

* * *

**Sorry did I say happy I meant _at least I'm not_**_** picking on them.**_

**I'm not sure why these chapters suddenly got so much shorter, I hate being inconsistent but these middling chapters have been very very annoying in that regard. Any issues? This chapter feels short, it shouldn't feel this short, I swear there was content in here and it will be very important later, I promise!  
**

**For now, and until next week, please review? Review! Review! School is kicking my ass! I have ALL THE THINGS due this week! Revieeeeeew! I love silly gushing, and I love questions too, I might even answer some of them over PM if they aren't dangerously spoilerish, just, please?**

**Get me to 60, guys! See you next Sunday!**


	14. Two Italies

**Leaving Hogwarts, Decision of the Loved.**

**Updating sporadically again because, uh, I hit 50 favourites on Final Loop? (That's completely unrelated.)**

**Canada Day! Yeah, I- Canada Day is on Sunday... (And he's not even in this chapter.)**

**I'm just really, really, _really bored_ tonight? ****So have a chapter and have another chapter on Sunday, because I finished 17 at last and am working on 19 and 20. As long as I maintain a threshold of 4 chapters I'm pretty much safe.**

**So have a happy Friday, everyone!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Two Italies

No voice.

No sound.

No sight.

No comprehension or deliberation. No investment or significant interest.

Just pain.

Just normal, safe, familiar pain.

* * *

France was the first one to claim to see him, but it was a fluke. Someone with red hair, about Veneziano's height, walked through a refugee camp in Pisa before vanishing into the crowd. France didn't get to see whoever it was again, and his limited knowledge of Italian failed him at precisely the wrong moment to ask anyone for help.

Japan was next, a few days later. An aftershock from the main quake caused a fragile wall to collapse in one of the buildings they were using as a field hospital. He thought he heard a familiar voice shouting for support to prop up the heavy concrete, but by the time he arrived through the mess of people there was nothing waiting for him except a crushed filing cabinet.

Russia would have been upset after following someone he thought looked familiar down a broken street, but when it brought him face-to-face with a troupe of art-thieves smashing the windows of a museum, all was forgiven. Oh, except the thieves of course, Russia couldn't just let that slide.

In all there were many, many reports as one week turned into two, and two became four. December was when many of the nations began going home again, because the initial crisis was over now and there was little the armies and task-forces could do. No one told Italy that the longer they stayed the less they happened to see, or thought they saw, his missing brother. But no one had to tell him, he just knew.

No one had to tell Germany either, because he was the first nation to give up and go home.

* * *

It was a new kind of pain.

And it brought a new kind of fear.

And a new something else too.

At first the new something didn't have a name, he didn't give it one.

Couldn't think of one.

Then he heard one: need.

Need for... a doctor. Need for clean water. Need for medicine. Need for food, for protection, for safety.

Then the need changed.

Need for... work. Need for money. Need for knowledge (education)- schools! Need for roads (infrastructure) and telephones (communications). And buildings (housing), and food (agriculture), and many, many different kinds of needs.

It carried on until more than pain and more than fear, he felt need.

* * *

"Production is down, sales are down, imports and exports are both-"

He knew this. Italy knew all of this.

"Can we approach the EU for a Bail-out?"

"Two months ago, maybe."

He was sitting at the table surrounded by investment and financial agents, but he couldn't look at any of them.

"The manufacturing sector was all but wiped out."

"Are people getting back to work in Turin yet?"

"Foreign investors are bailing left and right..." That meant no, no people were not getting back to work. There was nowhere for them _to_ work. The service industry was in pieces, people were applying to leave Italy and emigrate to elsewhere in Europe. Others were trying to pick up and leave the shattered north for the safer, calmer south.

Fuck, since when was the south supposed to be calm?

"Then there has to be money _in_ the nation that we can use." None that they could keep their hands on, but Italy didn't say that.

"There _are_jobs, reconstruction is well underway in several communes."

"Yes but where's the relief money to pay them? I saw a report for almost two million Euros from a Spanish charity, but now..." Now it was missing, like the funding for school reconstruction that the Vatican had offered up. "It doesn't make sense, we have paperwork from up until last week and then-"

"Renege on NATO." Italy said, the first words he'd managed in over an hour of talks. The room went quiet and he didn't look up from where he was staring at the paper work in front of him. His fingers were woven together under his forehead, they were the only thing keeping him from just toppling over.

"What?" He didn't want to say it twice...

"The security budget." But he did. "Pull back our forces in Afghanistan, Kosovo, and anywhere else." The other nations would be furious, but Italy didn't have a choice.

"Didn't we make a commitment to support-?"

"That's why I said _renege."_

To renege. To break a deal, to go back on one's word, to fail to hold to a commitment. He didn't say retreat or cheat or anything like that, he said renege, he said get the fuck out while they still could.

"Keep the administrative framework in place, but get the men and equipment off the ground. We can't afford to keep them there anymore." They couldn't keep pouring millions of Euros into conflicts elsewhere: they had to keep the focus here, at home, where the crisis was. He didn't look up at the men and women seated around him, but Italy did dig deep to find the power to compel them.

"Open the books and cut anything you can. Government benefits, salaries, allowances, grants everything. If the masses won't work for cheap then exploit the prisons, but you won't have to." No. Immigrant populations, the ones afraid that they'd be kicked out if they didn't keep working, they'd break their backs to stay in the country. "Attack the universities for more funding, put a freeze on anyone trying to move their assets out of Italy." Start calling in debts and seizing property from those who should have been able to pay, but now couldn't.

"Sir, that's a bit extreme, isn't it?"

Italy managed to lift his head this time, looking up at the speaker with what he knew were exhausted green eyes. He'd already spent his morning running away from and dodging Spain, but he couldn't change the facts. He couldn't pretend he didn't know where two-million Euros in relief money had gone in the space of seventy-two hours.

"If we don't use the law, the Mafia will use force." Because that was what this was. He couldn't tell himself the money wasn't being reinvested by mysterious patrons buying up apartment blocks and factory buildings. It was an infestation, a killer that had found a chink in North Italy's industrial armor. Why suffer with the dry south when the rich north had been literally split open like over-ripe fruit? The factories would be rebuilt and the industries would revive, but where would all the money go?

The rich north had always supported the poor south, it was a simple fact. The south relied on subsidies from Rome to survive, and Rome taxed the north to fund those benefits. If the money stopped flowing from one into the other, if the only way the south could honour that relationship was to spread the cancer from one region to the next...

"I lost my little brother because I wasn't paying attention. I'm not giving up my people without a fight."

Extreme measures and extreme times and all of that. Spain would understand…

* * *

He just needed... something...

And he had to... something...

Just had to do_... something..._

* * *

"Bring the next load in!" America shouted, waving his hand to get the attention of the man running the small floating platform on the canal, one boat puttering away before the new one slid up with stacks of bricks and bags of cement mix. Relief money wasn't pouring into Italy like before, but America himself hadn't left the nation yet. His boss was getting pretty pissed with him, and Italy kept asking why the heck America was still hanging around in the disaster zones, but he hadn't been able to give a concise reason for it.

Didn't mean he didn't _know_ why, America just had a hard time saying it. He had a hard time saying a lot of things now, and time wasn't making it any easier.

A lot of people had died in Venice. Like, a whole lot. A really, really big number. Italy hadn't been rocked by a tsunami and nuclear crisis like Japan a few years before, but they'd been hit heavily in other ways: industrial fires, chemical spills, etc. And Venice was also a city built on a lagoon on the Adriatic coast, so what hadn't just sunk into the sea had simply crumbled from the violent shaking.

The entire neighbourhood where the twelve of them had stayed was completely gone. Reconnaissance dives had been happening all around the city looking for statues, or relics, or anything of 'value' that had sunk beneath the waves. Water-logged canvases weren't on that list though, nor were 19th century rifles and 15th century rapiers, or any of the other artifacts that had been tucked away in that sunken apartment. The building had collapsed, the other occupants had most likely drowned, and Venice was the worst of the worst hit areas.

So that was why America- that was why _Alfred_ focused his attention here. He knew that his favourite time of year, the Christmas season, was well under-way back home, but as much as he really, really needed to go and be a part of that... he couldn't. He couldn't leave yet, or really he just wouldn't. Instead he was in Venice working through the ruins of what had once been another nation's heart.

There were no politics here, not like back home with the upcoming election. There were no trade talks to attend, or Wall Street squabbles to deal with, no policy debates, no heavy-handed questions to answer. No Canadian diplomatic crisis, no Arthur Kirkland...

Instead there was concrete and brick-laying, and water-purifying and electrical rewiring. Building codes, short breaks, cold rain and a lot of determined, sombre Italian citizens. Alfred didn't even have to worry about running into other nations, because aside from Lovino who was back in Rome, he hadn't seen anyone since-

"Alright, who took my shovel?" It wasn't raining today, but it was still cold and damp from the storm the night before. It was winter and not the right time of year to go building things, but under the tented blue tarp over their job site, Alfred and the half-dozen Italian citizens he was working with were kept kinda-sorta dry. His Italian was still clumsy around them- New York Italian wasn't the same as Venetian Italian, but a couple of them understood and shrugged in his direction, cracking a smile or two as the eight of them-

Wait, eight? No, six of them plus one of him meant- who was that guy? With his shovel!

"Hey, dude." Walking up, the mystery man had a denim cap on over his head, wet from the rain. He was bundled up all weird too; no helmet or orange vest, and the worn-out boots on his feet probably weren't steel-toe either. Dirty hands, he was favouring one shoulder as he worked, manipulating the shovel to mix a fresh batch of cement without stressing his left arm too bad, like he had practice with working around it. But if he wasn't dressed properly then that meant he'd probably just wandered on to their work site without permission. Why had no one told him off yet? Alfred wasn't gonna be _mean_ but- "Dude, you got permission to be...?"

His face was dirty to match his hands, and the stained denim cover-alls he was wearing looked too big under a thin wind-breaker. The American felt his words dry up in his throat as dull, out-of-focus brown eyes looked at him, then slid away without recognition and got back to work.

"It's you..." The scrape and rattle of the shovel didn't stop. The bandages around his left hand were soiled and frayed across his palm, the whole arm hanging without helping the work. "It's really... oh my god..." It was hard to breathe, and without wondering why Alfred knew not to take his eyes off the, uh... nation?

"Italy?" The shovel stopped, but there was nothing on that dirty face to tell him what was going on. His lips were slightly parted but his features were completely relaxed, the Italian blinking slowly at nothing, like he was lost in deep, contemplative thought.

The humans around them had noticed what was going on, but weren't getting involved, they didn't even seem curious. Was he the one doing that? Nations could affect the humans around them, but only in certain ways, was he keeping them away from him? No one was lingering nearby or coming any closer...

Alfre- Ameri- Oh whatever! He held his breath for a moment, but when it became clear that he wasn't going to get much more of a response, he tried again.

"Dude can you... can you hear me?" Reaching out, the nation carefully set one hand down on the older one's shoulder.

Italy's reaction was fast and defensive, escaping the hand and turning so they were facing each other properly. He slid back with two long strides, visibly favouring one leg and tucking his left arm close against his ribs. His eyes were wide open but America could immediately tell that he wasn't seeing any better than before, his gaze off-centre and staring in the right direction without focusing on a target. He was still holding the shovel, but its head was down on the ground, not raised like a weapon.

_'It's only been a month..._' Since the earthquake, not since everything else... _'If he's still one of us, his entire body must be-'_ Still one of them? _Still_? America hadn't even noticed when he'd started calling the older brother _'Italy'_, it had just happened. But now Italy was right in front of him, and Italy was in Rome where he'd been all week since he'd last come around to check how reconstruction efforts were going in Verona. Italy hadn't set foot in Venice since-

But Italy was right _here_.

"H-hang on," Lifting his hands slowly, America didn't know what he'd do if Italy bolted, or vanished, or if he just- "I'm not gonna hurt you," not again, god no, not again, "I just need to..."

Moving slowly, America reached down into his pocket and found his phone. Italy wasn't watching him any clearer than he had before, wavering slightly from side to side with his spine still twisted to protect his injured arm. Was that blood on his clothes? America found himself biting his lips trying not to say anything, not trusting himself to keep his cool as he felt the anxiety and the frustration creeping up on him. Fuck, couldn't Italy just do them all a favour and fucking heal already? He was a nation, a knife wound should have been easy-

_'No. Stop it.'_ Magic. Torture. Earthquake. Italy had enough on his plate, both Italies did. America swallowed the anger bubbling up in the back of his throat. He wouldn't let China have the satisfaction of knowing he'd blown his top again. He wouldn't let France talk down to him like a child, or Russia strut around like a fucking cock in a hen house, and England could just-

_'This isn't about me!'_ Thumb speeding through his contacts, America was finding it harder and harder to breathe evenly, forcing his eyes to jump between the phone and the wavering nation teetering in front of him. This wasn't about America, this wasn't about Alfred's problems; he just had to do the right thing.

He hit '_dial_' and then _'speaker'_ on the sensitive display, the trill of a phone ringing through the device as the call was placed and tried to connect. America held the electronic in the palm of his hand, shyly offering it to the man standing in front of him.

"_Hello?_" A low voice exhaled, obviously tired and over-worked. "_America? What do you want?" _Italy rolled the words around his accent, speaking in short bursts of English. America just watched the phone and watched the Italy in front of him: his brown eyes had moved a little, staring at America instead of just facing his direction.

"You need to say something." He said clearly, and Italy tsk'd sharply through the phone.

"_What? Look, asshole I'm busy right now so what the hell-"_ Italy dropped the shovel, "-_do you want?" _

His face was the same but Italy just stood there, arms hanging limp at his side as he stopped holding his body so stiffly.

"It's him, I promise." America soothed, trying to muster up the patience to keep going before he looked down at the black face of the phone again. "Dude, try Italian."

"_**What?**__"_

"Say something in Italian! Don't hang up on me, this is important!"

It took a moment and then the other language came ripping out of the speakers, flippant words and turn-of-phrases America didn't know lashing out at him. Cussing was a universal language, so while America couldn't translate them exactly he still understood that Italy was finding the most creative ways to tell him to fuck off and stop wasting his time.

But that was okay, because Italy came stumbling up until he was right in front of America. His eyes were locked on the spluttering device and his mouth hung open, jaw stiff around the silence he was choking on. America offered him the phone, ignoring the insults and black-hearted remarks still coming through over the line.

"Here, take it." Italy shook his head, the first sign that he'd understood anything America was trying to say. "_Yes." _Italy flinched. "Do you want me to bring you to him?" He was shaking, panting too if America paid close enough attention. "You wanna see him again?"

Italy closed his eyes and gasped harshly, like he was trying to clear his lungs. The full, painful cry interrupted the voice swearing at them from Rome, but Italy clamped a hand over his mouth before the other Italy completely understood what he'd just heard. For a tense moment the only sound was the first Italy wheezing behind his palm, tears cutting through the grime as he cried against his dirty fingers.

"_Are you crying, you bastard?"_ America didn't answer, he just convinced Italy to take the phone and hold it tight in his hand. The free-flying insults had died and Italy's voice was low and reserved on the other side. "_America, who's there?"_

"Do you want to go to Rome?" Italy looked up at him, then back down at the display. America hadn't been very creative when he'd programmed the number in so the only thing on the screen was the Italian tricolour. "He's safe, nothing bad happened to the capitol."

"_America?"_

"I'll take you." He'd said he'd ask for Italy's permission before doing anything, or Germany's, but this was pretty much the same thing. He couldn't just turn around and _leave_. "If you want me to then I'll take you right to see him. You can hear his voice, can't you?"

Italy nodded.

"_America!_"

"Do you want me to take you out of here, Italy?" He looked so confused by the question, but at the same time the voice in the phone went quiet. "Do you want to see your brother again?"

In sync, both Italies broke down crying.

* * *

"Veneziano!" Spain was staring at him but Italy _did not care_. He couldn't get away with breaking another phone after he'd destroyed his previous one, but he just waved one hand at the aid who came walking up to him with something for him to look at, too scared to try saying anything to her. "Veneziano? Is that you? I can hear somebody right there, damn it!"

They were in a tiny, colourless office in Rome, not the place where Italy usually worked, but similar. Spain had pulled him in here for a fast, hard talk, but as soon as everything clicked over the phone the tomato-bastard was up and quickly shut the office door. He drew the blinds just as fast and Italy found himself spinning, trying to walk but having no space to move in between the desk and the chairs and the other nation.

"Say something, say _anything_. Are you there?" He was dead, he was dead, he was dead. How many times was his little brother going to die and do this to him? "Veneziano _please! _I'm begging you! Are you okay? Where are you? Please just say something-"

Words started falling and Italy couldn't even follow what he was saying, he just spoke, feeding comments and questions into the phone without waiting for the silence to swallow him up again. He couldn't let the quiet win, pausing only for a few brief moments when he heard America's voice again. He kept repeating the same questions over and over again, slowly, like he was speaking to a small, frightened child.

"_Do you want to go back to Rome?"_

"_Your brother's waiting, do you want me to take you?"_

"_We can leave right now, are you ready?"_

"_Just nod your head, it's okay. We can stay here if you want- no? Okay."_

Where the fuck had America found patience? Italy didn't know but as he listened to the American's voice he was praying to high heaven for anything to thank him with. He didn't know he was crying until he looked at Spain and his face was a green-eyed blur, Italy blinking the hot, stinging tears away and still struggling to walk around. And he kept talking, because he couldn't stand to stop.

On the other end of the line his brother must have been nodding, because America whittled his questions down until he wasn't even asking anymore, just making statements. "_Watch your step_", "_take my hand_", "_sit right here_", they were on a boat moving through the city, he'd reappeared in the same place he'd vanished. Venice.

"H-How are you getting here? I'll send something, a plane or-"

"_I've got a crew on standby, don't worry."_ Oh god America was the one telling him not to worry, something had to be wrong with this but Italy couldn't sort it out. "_Be ready to receive him, I'm bringing him straight to your house, okay?"_ Right home, his brother was coming home.

Straight home.

Right now.

And he was safe. Safe, and alive, and on his way home.

"_I'm gonna switch you off speaker phone now, okay?"_ Italy- Romano couldn't even remember what that comment meant right now, but he just ignored it and kept trying to reach out through the device for his brother. "_Give you guys a bit more privacy. Keep talking and don't hang up, alright? He's calmer now._" No. Hell no. Fuck no. Let the devil take him this time he wouldn't abandon his brother again.

Romano didn't even notice that Spain was holding him until the taller nation tried to make him sit down. He hadn't known he was so cold, but the idea of being let go was as terrifying as letting the phone call drop for no reason. The Italian resisted sitting so he could rest his head on Spain's shoulder, seeking warm and shameless comfort while Spain stroked his back and didn't judge. Italy groped around desperately in his mind for the distinction that kept him joined and separated from the silent person on the other side of the phone. He couldn't be South Italy without a North Italy, there couldn't be two Italies if there was only one...

"First thing I'm gonna do... when you get here, you bastard..." He was still crying. South Italy was still standing there weeping like a little girl into a cell-phone, but for the first time in over four months he was okay with it. He was okay with crying. "The first thing I'm gonna do is kick the _shit_ out of you...!"

If North Italy couldn't say a word, then South Italy would cry enough for both of them.

* * *

**I need to stop using the "H" word for this story.**

**And LOOK LOOK NEW REVIEW FORMAT THING ISN'T IT NEAT?**

**I'll see everyone on Canada Day, which I will be spending with my boyfriend and his family because yay, long weekend!**


	15. Safe and Sound

**Somewhere, Safe and Sound, Utopia, Memories, Shattered, Empty.**

**Canada Day!**

**Happy Canada Day!**

**Posting from Vancouver Island because I'm staying with my boyfriend and his family. Also posting a wee bit shy of July 1st because I'm exhausted and have to get up early to cook tomorrow (and do other things 3). I quite like this chapter, although like how the previous set were too short, the length got away from me here.**

**Anybody mind that?**

**I thought not.**

**Have a Happy Canada Day!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

To Plead Guilty

Of all the really shitty things to feel, America had learned not too long ago that guilt could easily be one of the worst. Feeling guilty about big, bad things was terrible, but what was even worse was feeling at fault for tiny, insignificant things that hurt someone a lot more than you could have expected.

Like having his cell crap out on them because he hadn't thought to plug it in the night before. That kind of harmless, minor inconvenience should have done nothing except hamper America's communications for an afternoon. Instead, it snapped North Italy out the calm, semi-aware daze he'd fallen into while listening to South Italy's voice, and it forced America to take an active role in trying to keep the Italian _calm _for the next three hours.

It was only supposed to take two hours or so by train to get from Venice to Rome, but there were no direct rail lines left, and all the partial sections either led nowhere or were occupied with live-saving freight and service cars. They could have driven, but that was by far the slowest way to get anywhere right now. Repairs were being carried out on select motor corridors trying to get the EU's road system back up to functioning levels, but Rome and Venice were separated by mountains, or by going _around_ the mountains.

In the end they flew, which America realized was a bad decision the moment Italy noticed that they were at an impromptu air-field outside of Venice, and that America fully expected him to climb inside a pressurized tube and ride it all the way to the Italian capitol. He'd never known Italy to be afraid of flying, or going fast, or of riding or working with big machines in general, but there were a lot of things about this Italy that America wasn't prepared for.

Like no touching, absolutely none. He flinched and squirmed away every time America tried to set a hand on his arm or make sure the fragile state wasn't about to tip over when they had to walk more than a few yards. He got aggressive when America asked to take a look at his left arm and shoulder, baring his teeth and glaring at anyone who came too close. He even rejected food and fresh water when they were offered. Italy never uttered a single word throughout, but it was so painfully obvious that he didn't trust him that America swallowed his temper half a dozen times just trying to get Italy on the god-damned plane.

It was a small thing, a private civilian jet an American philanthropist was using to jettison critical hospital patients back and forth across the country. The crew was only going to perform a few more runs now that things were calming down and reconstruction was heavily underway, but in the meantime...

In the meantime, America was rewarded for his hard-won patience when he left Italy alone for a few minutes to speak to the pilot. When he came back, America not only found half his lunch missing, but also the Italian state curled up in a dead faint in his seat. A little Italian girl whose family was riding with them was standing over him, combing her tiny fingers gently through the nation's tangled, grimy red hair.

No explanation was necessary, because shit. Not even America could stay mad at _that._

Italy barely woke up when they landed, dazed and unsteady enough that America almost asked for a wheelchair to carry him in, but he regrouped. Aside from the doctors and paramedics waiting for the family when they arrived, a pair of Italian soldiers were there on the tarmac to escort the two nations properly into Rome. They spoke _to_ Italy but he never said a word back, not even when the same child from before ran up and hugged him around the waist before leaving with the doctors and her sick brother. It wasn't like Italy to ignore children, but he didn't even try to wave after her when the girl left. He didn't smile either.

Rome confused him, at least that was the impression America got watching Italy stare out the car window as they drove. He seemed startled by the other cars on the road and shied away from the window whenever they drove next to the side-walk, like he was afraid of the people on the other side of the tinted glass.

He was shit for conversation, but seemed more willing to listen to America's voice now than he'd been back in Venice or while passed out on the plane. Italy even went so far as to make eye-contact a couple of times, something America slowly realized he'd been avoiding for hours. They were quick glances, but not shy. It was more like he was scared of seeing something when he looked at America, and that cold treatment helped smother the frustration and anger still trying to burn a hole through his gut.

Even Italy expected him to fly off the handle for no reason, and instead of making him mad the thought just made him feel cold and worn out. He wasn't supposed to be the bad-guy...

Italy also kept shaking, trembling from the moment they climbed into the car until now, when they were only a few blocks from the place where he was supposed to live. His eyes were dark, hollow things, black circles around them making him look ten times as exhausted as America felt. He was supposed to be olive-skinned and healthy, but as grey as he'd looked back in that apartment now Italy seemed yellow, almost jaundice.

"Are you cold?" Italy shook his head. He'd only answer yes and no questions, and only sometimes. "You keep rubbing your shoulder, does it hurt?" Like, right now was not a sometime, so Italy didn't respond to him. He did take his hand off his left shoulder though, like he could fool America into thinking nothing was wrong if he just didn't touch it.

"If you don't want to do this..." America wasn't sure what he was going to offer, but Italy took a quick breath like he was going to say something. He waited, but instead of speaking the other nation just balled his right hand up in a fist and pressed it against his lips. It was enough of an interruption to say no, he didn't want America to give him an alternative right now, but not enough to say why. He was still staring out the window, and they were on his street.

There wasn't a whole hell of a lot America could talk about. He'd generalized about the kind of aid and the nations who had entered Italian territory to help with relief and reconstruction, avoiding names when and where he could. The mansion was completely off limits for discussion, and as much as he might have wanted to say that yes, everyone had survived, Italy hadn't given him a look that seemed to ask that kind of question.

Everything else, cars, sports, cooking, movies, it all just felt kinda wrong.

"You ready?" There was the front door to the townhouse, and there were the two nations standing outside waiting for them. America recognized the Vatican City State just from the way the old man was holding himself- shoulders and spine both straight, one hand grasping that silver cross hanging over his chest. He didn't know who the other one was though; a young strawberry blonde who kept fidgeting and looked like he was going to be sick. He'd expected Romano to be here, but...

The car rolled to a stop and Italy set a hand on the door, but he didn't open it. America watched him for a moment longer and then opened his own door, carefully stepping out onto the road and blinking through the cold winter sunshine until everything came into focus again. He turned and saw the Vatican staring at him, obviously asking what was wrong, and America just lifted one hand to tell the other two to keep calm.

He himself was struggling with the same order.

America decided he could be patient right now, he would _force_ himself to mind his temper as he walked around the car to come stand on the sidewalk. Italy'd gone through enough hell to last them all a couple of lifetimes, so America would give him space.

The young guy standing there on the curb must have been another one of Italy's brothers. He had the same kind of curl sticking out the side of his head, and he was worrying his lips like mad just waiting for Italy to find the courage to open the door and step out. He was dressed like a kid though, a green sweatshirt over jeans and sneakers. Just like the Vatican, this other nation was gripping a talisman hanging around his throat but America somehow doubted it was another cross.

America could sympathize with the man in the car even if he really, really didn't want to. It was painful and humiliating to show up like a shadow of yourself, to let the sun settle on all your scars and show the people you cared about how much you'd changed.

_'This isn't about __**me**_.' This was about the nation hiding behind the tinted glass. Finally, the door popped open but didn't swing out more than a few inches.

"Seborga-!" The kid gave in and quickly walked up to the window before the Vatican called him to a halt. The damage was already done: the car door didn't shut but it did swing in until it touched the frame again. America took one look at the boy- Seborga, and immediately saw all the stress and anxiety he needed to forgive him. The kid was an inch from tears and shaking like mad trying to pretend he was calm.

"Hey..." Placing his elbow on the roof of the car, America bent down so he could speak through the tiny space between the vehicle and the door, only Italy's fingers were visible through the thin gap. He was still holding the handle. "We can take a ride around the block again if you want. These guys can go inside and-"

"But you just got here!" the boy cried, not bothering with English and jumping straight into Italian. America glanced over as a few of those struggling tears were set free. The Vatican swept over and quickly placed a hand on Seborga's elbow, but the boy's green eyes were still fighting to see through the blacked-out window. He had Romano's eyes. "Please, Veneziano, you're home! _Home!_"

"Dude, calm down."

"Seborga, this isn't helping-"

"I _know_ that!" Man, these guys really were so messed up right now. America had to assume that the kid was a Micro-nation, he'd never seen him before but with his accent and the way Vatican man-handled him to make him turn around, he _had_ to be family.

"Papa, I know." Family... "But you got to see him in Venice, and _you_-" America was surprised when the smaller nation looked at him directly, after the last few months few nations would meet his eye. The religious enclave kept a hold on Seborga's arm, but that didn't keep the boy from speaking- from pleading? "You were with Romano in Switzerland! You're the ones who got him out of that place to begin with!" America found himself wanting to say something mean, something bitter to put the Micro-nation in his place, but the words escaped him. The desperate sound of that voice and the look in those crying eyes kept him silent. "I haven't even _seen_ him since-"

The car door swung open. America hadn't even expected it and stumbled a bit to get out of the way, hanging out near the tail lights at the end of the vehicle. It took a minute for the nation inside to actually find his feet and stand, but after several long, shaking moments Italy's head appeared over the edge of the door. He was holding on to the car with both hands so he could keep his balance, his dark brown eyes passing by America and looking cautiously over at the other two small countries still standing over on the curb.

The Micro-nations had forgotten that they were supposed to be struggling with each other. The cardinal was worrying his silver cross again, and the boy was standing there with tears still visible on his face. The younger one dared to take another step closer, and this time his brother didn't retreat back into the dark confines of the car.

Italy was thin and yellow now, standing there with a scarred face and dirty clothes. He looked frightened and uncertain, all the pride and life beaten out of his fragile body. America watched Italy's gaze rise up in small jumps, the Italian taking a good minute just to move up the body in front of him until he reached the Micro-nation's face. He looked at his chin and his hair and his ears, but even if America wasn't sure about it then the boy was certain, his brother wouldn't meet his eyes.

America just watched them. He watched them and he tried to understand how Italy could stand there without anger, without rage. He should have been furious, he should have stood up and demanded to know where his little brother got off being all weepy and upset when nothing bad had happened to him, or at least not the same kind or intensity of bad that Italy had survived. Seborga didn't have the burden of failure weighing him down, he hadn't watched his friends and his family members die repeatedly, hadn't flung himself into abyss trying to save the souls of enemies he could have left behind. North Italy's reward for everything he'd done was torment and chaos for his people. In order to help eleven other men, he'd sacrificed the health and safety of the children he _existed_ to protect.

Seborga's tears should have made Italy _furious._

"It's _me._" Simple Italian, America wasn't even angry that he had to translate Seborga's statement. "It's me, brother, it's really _me _this time." This time? The boy brought his hands up and touched his own chest, fingers curled and grasping for something he couldn't hold. "It's not a dream," he begged, "I had them too and this- this is _real..._" What was he...?

America could only see Italy's face in profile, but whatever Seborga was trying to say his traumatized brother seemed to click. Italy's mouth was open again like he wanted to say something, his hands beginning to shake where he was clutching the car. All he managed to do was shuffle his feet before he leaned down on the car door, keeping it between the two of them like a shield. He let go with one hand and reached out slowly, but not all the way, toward his brother's face.

For some reason America had expected things to go differently. He'd thought the car door would open and Romano or whoever would throw themselves at Italy in a crushing hug- weren't they big on things like that? They'd just all smother him and drag him inside the house, probably stuff him full of food and give him a bath like a lost puppy. He'd imagined lots of talking, people yelling over one another just to be heard and drown out the stalwart silence of the last four months. In his mind this moment had always been a loud, boisterous celebration.

Instead, he watched Italy almost flinch back when Seborga touched his hand. He saw the grief and the pain, and he understood that they weren't going to be celebrating anything just yet.

* * *

Seborga was his own nation, but he was still in some ways a part of North Italy. He was still, in some ways, connected to the trauma.

Veneziano had lived it, and Romano had understood it, but right in the middle of his brothers stood Seborga. He hadn't quite understood what happened and he wasn't carrying the scars from it, but he'd felt it, and he'd watched it. Seborga hadn't dreamed once in months: everything had been nightmares.

They'd become clearer once Veneziano was out of the mansion, but he'd had them in flashes and snatches going as far back as August. The white walls, the wood floors, the florescent lights... He'd had Romano explain it to him, just like he had to Papa and San Marino when they'd asked him. Seborga had screamed during the earthquake but he couldn't really explain why; none of his children had died, and his damage hadn't been so bad- not like Veneziano's cities, not like Venice itself. They'd thought it was all because their brother was dead, that North Italy had died and made room for one nation between the poor south and mangled north.

They'd found out this morning that they were wrong, and Seborga had been happy.

Now he was standing here with his brother, and he realized that his happiness had been selfish.

It took almost twenty minutes to get Veneziano all the way into the house. He could walk but he was scared, taking two steps back when he actually noticed that Papa was with them. The sight of the Holy See terrified him and Seborga didn't know how to console either of them when Veneziano's fear visibly stabbed their father's protected heart. His brother's hands were tangled with his though, the right one noticeably stronger than the left, and when Seborga tried changing the grip so he could try and comfort him, he felt something knock against his fingertips.

He pushed up Veneziano's sleeve a little and found a string of dark resin beads wrapped around his left wrist, hanging over the soiled grey bandages. He was still wearing Papa's rosary...

Another reason why it took so long was America, because as soon as Seborga coaxed his brother up the first step to reach the front door, the American said something to Papa and then started to climb back into his car.

Veneziano froze, spun around and focused his eyes directly on the foreign power. His sudden attention made all three of them stop and even America was confused. Veneziano didn't say anything, but his silence was loud enough to force America to say something.

"I, uh... You probably wanna spend some time with your family, right?"

Veneziano kept staring.

"Alone? I mean-" Seborga flinched but America caught his mistake, tripping over his tongue, "I mean in private, without me around."

Veneziano kept watching him, his stare beginning to fluster the other nation.

"Look, I did my part." America was shuffling his feet on the pavement. He made a nonsense gesture with his hands and then wiped his palms off on the front of his jacket. He looked like he was dressed for construction work, kind of like how Veneziano was muddy and rumpled, but now he was scowling too. "What the hell do you want from me? I-"

"Coffee!" Seborga blurted, breaking Papa's focus but not Veneziano's. America was looking at him now, but his brother was still focused on the blonde. "Well, you know, you came all this way and stuff..." And stuff? He wasn't very good at thinking on his fee- "You should- stay for coffee! Or dinner?"

Papa was looking at him like he was crazy.

America was looking like he wanted to hit him.

Veneziano wanted America to stay, and he wasn't going to go inside until he got what he wanted.

"I don't see why that would be a problem." Papa muttered, still curious and confused, but he looked back at the American and Seborga tried tugging on his brother's fingers, hoping to get his attention. "You took a plane down? Yes, come inside."

America obviously wanted to argue, but then he took another look up at Veneziano and closed his mouth, swallowing his words. He shut the car door without getting in, slapping his hand on the roof as a signal for the driver to pull away. He stuck his hands in his pockets as the engine started and the vehicle began rolling again. America looked up the stairs at Veneziano, and slowly, grudgingly, nodded.

Seborga took his brother inside.

Spain had come home with Romano and then left because he was asked to. Seborga didn't know where he'd gone exactly, but he knew that while San Marino was still trying to work out how to get from his territory all the way to Rome, the last brother was here in the house somewhere.

Veneziano hadn't tried to hug him at all, but Seborga's brother wouldn't let go of his hand as they stepped inside. He had to stop for a few moments right over the thresh-hold, like he'd just stepped in cold water and was trying to adjust, but then he slowly waded further into the familiar hallways and rooms of the first floor.

He started touching things, his fingers wrapped around Seborga's right hand, but he touched the table in the little entry way and the gilded frame of the mirror- but he didn't look in the mirror before moving by. He touched picture frames and key-rings, keeping his boots on as Seborga noticed he was limping slightly, but that could wait. The grip he had with his left hand was surprisingly strong.

Veneziano didn't stride through the sitting room which separated the entrance from the dining room and kitchen, instead he kind of hugged the wall, avoiding the open space. His eyes kept scanning as he went, moving over objects and frequently coming up just to swing around and make sure everything was in its place. It took Seborga a moment to realize that whenever his brother looked back at the rest of them, Veneziano was counting to make sure all four were still together.

He froze again when they heard footsteps run up the stairs, so far the only sign that Romano was even in the house. Seborga didn't understand what his brothers were doing until they reached the kitchen, and Veneziano stopped squeezing his hand so hard.

"Are... are you hungry?" There was a bowl of hot, fresh yellow polenta sitting on the table, bathed in sunlight. A tall glass of milk and a sugar-bowl were both sitting next to it invitingly. It was more of a northern thing for the cornmeal to be kind of runny with sweet cream for breakfast, and even if it was getting on in the afternoon, they hadn't known he was coming until this morning.

There was also a little plate of sliced tomatoes, olives and onions sitting out, in case the polenta would taste better with something savoury. And if he just didn't want polenta then there was a tray of cheese laid out with bread and a little flask of olive oil. There were fresh herbs, mostly mint and parsly, and they'd been left whole and placed in a little glass with some water to keep them from wilting.

Romano had put out three different meals and then run away to hide upstairs. Seborga didn't know if he wanted to stay put with one brother or go and yell at the other one to come down and show himself.

Veneziano made the choice for him by refusing to let go of Seborga's hand. It wasn't until he was able to coax his older brother to sit down at the table that he was able to reclaim his wrist and fingers, lightly setting his other hand on Veneziano's shoulder to keep him seated. He was tempted to turn and question the American, but made himself speak to his brother instead.

"When was the last time you ate?" Veneziano took a breath, but then he just glanced over the various things on the table like he didn't know what do to next. He didn't seem confused by the items, just overwhelmed. "Well, here. We'll get you cleaned up after this." He handed his brother the metal spoon and... and then what? Why wasn't he saying anything?

There was more polenta in a pot Romano had left by the stove, Vatican spooning up a few more portions after America confirmed that they had something similar in the southern region of his home. Veneziano ate slowly without adding anything to the creamy dish, Seborga not taking up a portion as he made sure his brother was okay with having Papa sit next to him at the table.

It was like familiarizing yourself with a skittish animal, say a dog who had been kicked for so long it didn't know how to trust. Papa offered his hand slowly, palm up and fingers empty, and Veneziano immediately began radiating anxiety. His fingers twitched, he stopped eating and set the spoon back down in the bowl. His wide, wild eyes were focused on that hand and didn't move, he wouldn't even blink.

"You're home." Papa spoke softly, but clearly. He didn't like to whisper. "You can come and go as you please from here, you're safe." Seborga held his breath, but in a way he guessed it was the same thing Veneziano had done with_ him_ out in front of the car. He didn't know whether to trust or flee, and saw as much of a threat in the Vatican's empty hand as he had with Seborga rushing up to the car window.

Slowly, agonizingly, like he was fighting himself for every inch, Veneziano's hand crept away from the side of his bowl. He was reaching with his left hand, the one Seborga already knew had been hurt and abused, so there was hope in the sight of him using it. His fingers trembled before they stopped just shy of papa's, and Seborga watched the other micro-nation purse his lips tightly, then let out a long, careful breath when Veneziano slipped their fingers together.

He'd done the same thing outside, touched Seborga's face like he was afraid to disturb the image, to see it crumble like sand or fade away like a beautiful mirage. Veneziano closed his eyes and squeezed a few tears out, the clear liquid cutting through the dry dust and grime still clinging to his cheeks. He didn't let go of papa's hand though, the hold changing so their palms were pressed together as the Holy See carefully slid off his chair and down onto one knee. The Vatican never knelt to anyone.

"No more nightmares..." he said softly, and Veneziano covered his mouth with one wrist, shaking with muffled sobs and falling tears as his fingers were wrapped up gently in the other nation's. When he opened his eyes again they were looking right at each other. Seborga was distracted from the sight when America quietly stood up and ghosted by him.

"I'm gonna go find your brother..." His voice was quiet, barely whispering the words before he stepped completely out of Seborga's thoughts, out of the kitchen, and off upstairs to find Romano.

* * *

"Dude, what the hell?" Upstairs, America was pissed. Again.

"Is he okay?"

"No he's not okay, why would you even ask that?" Temper, temper, America had to control his god-damned- "What the hell're you doing up here? Go down and frickin' see him already." And he couldn't shout either, so he swallowed the swear while he stared down the panicking Italian Republic.

Because Romano _was_ panicking, that much was obvious just from watching him shoot back and forth down the hall, opening bedroom doors and rifling through closets. Romano- Lovino- _whatever the fuck his name was_ didn't look like he was going to start screaming or burst into tears like a wuss, but he had a familiar glassy-eyed, not-all-there look to him. It was too much like his brother downstairs, the older Italian over-clocking just trying to figure out where they kept the spare towels.

"Not yet."

"What? Whaddya mean _not yet?_" America shot back, sticking his hands on his hips and glowering after the shorter man as he followed him into the main bath on the second floor. "Look, I didn't drag him all the way down here just so you could-"

"That's the thing, you dragged him." Oh, fuck. Say that again you little- "And thank you," Thanks? "But..."

Romano was standing with his back to America, a large fleecy white towel over his arm as he was searching for a second one in the little linen closet in the bathroom. Once he had them he kinda looked around in a daze, like he'd forgotten what he was doing, then set both items down on a small stool next to the tub.

As he spoke, he turned on the water and let it run over his hands.

"But he's been getting dragged around a _lot._" Well he'd kinda been AWOL or asleep since everything at the house, but America managed to keep that comment to himself. "He hasn't made one easy choice in god knows how long..." Oh, well, okay that sounded legit. "He can't see me yet."

"Dude, you're the whole reason I even got him on that plane." Folding his arms, America leaned over against the wall and watched the Italian scrounge around for the rubber plug to stop the water from draining away. "You aren't even gonna go down and-?"

"Is he eating?" Fuck, stop interrupting him. "Even like a little bit?"

"_Yes._ Your dad and the kid- your brother? They were having a moment when I left." He just, no, America couldn't stand around when that was happening, it was uncomfortable on too many levels.

"Good." A spoon full of bath-salts went into the tub as it began to fill, Romano staring at the swirling water for a moment like he was getting lost in the light steam. "He probably hasn't eaten since... unless he found something... doubt it..."

"Dude, speak up."

"He hasn't eaten since the last loop." ...No. "He had, like... a little bit of food from the safe room," No, how could Romano know something like that? "But he ate it after he got the last key. He hasn't had an actual meal since-"

"Since England and I came back from the annex..." Since Japan had risked his life to bail America out of a bad situation, since the two of them had come back to the sanctuary and then-

The argument. Canada had turned on him, refusing to let America take responsibility for his lost glasses.

The intervention. Italy had shut it down, the man sitting mute and broken at the table downstairs had scolded both of them.

The confession. That America and his brother had lost each other before, that America had lost England too many times to-

The yelling. And the one time America had convinced himself not to shout back at England, not to fall into the same trap that always wound up with one of them dead.

The silence. Right before England charged back down into the annex. Right before England answered his question in the smoke-filled dark. Right after they realized Italy was missing...

"He needs to eat something comforting, and take a long, hot bath. And then he needs to sleep in his own bed with his own clean clothes on. And he just- he's had _enough_." Over the sound of the water it was hard to catch the sharp sniffle in the middle of Romano's explanation, but when he swept his wrist over his eyes not even America could miss it. It was good that he did that, because it made it easier for America to identify the raw burning in his own eyes.

Because the yelling, and the scolding, and the confessing, and the fighting, and the _silence_...

"I..." America felt dizzy, like Russia had just sucker-punched him in the gut and then boxed both his ears... "I'm heading out." He had to get away from here.

"America?" The Italy from the safe room was the Italy in the dining room, and suddenly America had to get as far away from him as he could. He rushed out into the hallway and Romano didn't follow him down the stairs, but he came up short when-

_'No-_'

"Look," America made it a mechanical, automatic reaction, speaking without letting his mind get in the way of his mouth. "I gotta go. Right now."

Vatican was there at the base of the stairs, looking up in surprise and backing up the other two who'd been following him. America set his eyes on the elder and tried to awkwardly shuffle down the last few steps and get past them. He couldn't do this, he had to get out.

"I'm sorry, I just-" He had to get away from the one hiding behind the Holy See, the foggy-eyed nation who was clinging to the cardinal's robe like a life-line. "I'm sorry." The person who was so exhausted he was about to fall asleep standing up. This wasn't about America, he couldn't be here. "I can't stay-" he had to get away, "I'm sorry-" away, "I didn't mean to-" _run away._ "I'm sorry."

"Mister America...?" He heard the kid's voice, but he had Italy's attention.

"Look, I'm sorry." He'd already said that, several times actually, but America couldn't find a way to switch off his tongue. He sounded like a broken record. "In the annex, it-" Shut up! "And the office-" A blur, he couldn't even remember which one- "It wasn't supposed to be that way!"

His throat hurt, it was tight and squeezing his voice. It was hard to breathe in all the way, and the pain only got worse when he realized Italy's eyes weren't clouded anymore. He was leaning on the Vatican like a child, but he was looking straight at America, straight _through_ him.

And it was terrible.

"Say something-"

Just standing there, frozen.

"Anything, I just need-"

Waiting.

"I've never been more sorry for anything in my entire-"

_Begging._

And Italy's face, he just- he wasn't scowling, and he didn't start glaring at America as he kept standing there blathering on, the words tripping and stumbling out of his mouth. He wasn't startled or confused, Italy was just listening to him, and under all the humiliation America could feel the cold, sickening grip of shame locking around his throat. The guilt strangled his temper and left him wallowing alone, stranded in isolation.

"Italy _please!_" Why wasn't he saying anything? Why _wouldn't_ he say something? He should have been angry, he should have been furious- America himself couldn't _believe_ he was falling apart right now, again, in Italy's house. So what if it wasn't with rage this time? He was causing another scene in _Italy's house..._

Italy had to say something. Say anything. To tell him to get out, tell him he didn't want to see America's face right now, or ever again. To get mad, to shout and get someone else to throw him out and slam the front door.

"_I'm sorry..._" But through his tears all America saw was Italy slowly turn to look at his younger brother. "_I'm so, so, sorry..._" And whatever passed between them was non-verbal, "_It's all my fault..._"

And then he felt Seborga's hand on his arm.

And America was led quietly away with his tears and his shame.

* * *

**I guess, to answer Musical Hats/Wilsontoyourhouse's question way back in chapter 4: Alfred's major malfunction was guilt. Poor bby~**

**HAPPY CANADA DAAAAAAAY!**


	16. Bloodshot

**Shattered, Memories, Thousand Years.**

**For some reason I did a bunch of editing on this chapter after I loaded it to the Doc Manager. That's not what the DM is for, but now my harddrive copy and the online copy are different. I mean like 2-3 pages different.**

**Bugger.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Bloodshot

Romano dealt with it, he chose to. He could have left it to Papa or Seborga, but it wasn't their house and America wasn't their problem.

Besides, he needed those two to focus on Veneziano, to get him cleaned up and put to bed. Romano had washed several outfits pulled from his brother's drawers already and had laid out several compulsive options on the bed the way he had with the food. Shorts, sweat-pants, sleeveless shirts, sweaters, etc., whatever Veneziano wanted to wear, and he left them on the bed after he turned down the covers and the fresh sheets. But with that done there was nothing else for Romano to do upstairs, and he wasn't going to change his mind about giving his brother a bit of god-damned _space_.

So in the meantime, Romano could deal with America.

"Do you want me to call your brother?" He hadn't heard a word of English since America'd shown up, not even upstairs when they'd been talking, so Romano switched to the dominant language now. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, peering into his living room and the blonde super-power hunched over his knees, head in his hands and utterly miserable on Romano's couch.

"Why bother? I know what he'd say." America, truth be told, looked like someone who'd been standing some place very far away for a long time now, and didn't know how to come back. He wouldn't even look up at Romano when he spoke. "I'll get out of your hair in a minute, I just..."

"No need." America couldn't see it, but the Italian shrugged after making his comment, leaving his guest to stew with just the words. "Didja eat?"

"...What?"

"Eat. Food. The shit I made for you idiots, did you have any?" There. It was easier to speak once he got the insults flowing, and America huffed softly before rubbing his eyes.

"A little bit. Why?"

Romano wondered why it was so easy to keep his temper in check right now, he should have been pissed with America's sulking tone.

"Because he wants you to stay." It was true. Romano had watched everything from the top of the stairs, then ducked into his bedroom until he heard the bathroom door close behind his brothers. If Veneziano had wanted America to get out, then America wouldn't still be in the house. Veneziano would have either stood dumb or done something to make Papa or Seborga kick America out, not made that slow, careful gesture to their brother for the foreigner to stay with them. "So if you're gonna stay then you're gonna eat. And get some sleep, damn it, you look like shit."

"What?" America was looking at him now, the bastard finally lifting his head and staring with bloodshot blue eyes. Annoyed, the Italian scowled and folded his arms tight over his chest. "I can't stay here, I-"

"Kitchen. Get."

"But, Romano, I-" Romano marched across his own living room, reached out one hand, and before America knew what was happening the southern half of the Republic of Italy had the single most powerful nation on earth by the ear and was dragging him to his feet. "Ow- _ow!_ Lay off! What are you-?"

"You're going to eat and then you're going to call your fucking boss." He didn't let go of that twisted ear, if he did then America would probably turn around and slam him into a wall, so Romano abused and dragged the other nation until they were back in the kitchen. "And tell him that you've got important shit to do over here with the Italian Recovery plan." Using his hold to lever the American down into a chair, Romano pulled over the cheese and bread from before and finally took his fingers away from the other nation's head.

"I don't..." America was missing brain-cells if he couldn't figure out what to do with bread and cheese, South Italy glowering over the larger, stronger nation as he stared blankly at the food. "Why? Why are you helping me? All I've done since-"

"_Idiot._" Romano didn't want to hear it, so he hissed the word over America's stupid self-pity. "I know the kinds of shit you've been getting into across Europe, so fucking eat and shut up already." Reaching over the America's shoulder, South Italy tore off a piece of the home-made loaf and then cut a slab of cheese off to go with it, folding one into the other like he was fixing up a snack for a small child.

When America tried to argue, Romano let him open his mouth and then shoved the food in right between his teeth.

"He wants you to stay, asshole."

"_Why?_" Romano was actually pleased with himself for getting America to eat. For some reason the super-power hadn't blown his top yet or tried to strangle him for man-handling him like this. He was just miserable, chewing the food slowly like it was getting stuck in his mouth and muddling up his words. He was pretty fucking docile for a dangerous hot-head.

"Doesn't matter why, just do what he said." Or implied, if America wanted to get technical. Idiot. "Now stay right there and eat, damn it."

"Where are you-?" Romano started walking away and paused when he heard America swing around in his chair, the bags under the kid's eyes demanding some kind of sympathy that the Italian was barely willing to tolerate. But he had to, because financial aid and world politics aside, the young nation sitting at his dining room table had just brought his little brother back home...

"How many rooms do you think this place has, asshole?" Snapping the words back over his shoulder, America was staring at him like he didn't understand basic English, and Romano mentally checked to see if he'd switched back to Italian without noticing. He hadn't. "We've only got one guest room and that's taken, so I'm going to make up the couch for you and when you're done eating you're going to _fucking_ sleep."

Decision made, asshole.

* * *

He wouldn't undress in front of them. He wouldn't even take off his coat while Seborga was still in the bathroom. The bathwater had cooled off significantly before the Vatican finally ushered his youngest son out of the tiled chamber and turned again to the wounded one.

"May I see your hands?" It was the only part of him that they were allowed to touch; the dirty, calloused hands he'd worked raw in the weeks since the incident. Veneziano just stood paralyzed in the corner for a long moment after he asked the question. He glanced skittishly between the warm water and the locked door, then finally nodded and carefully held his hands out for inspection.

The cardinal wasn't interested in the grime. The filth covering his son's body could easily be washed away with soap and hot water, both of which were waiting for him in the tub. No. What he was concerned with right now was a different kind of filth, a specific sort of pollution, and the one which he was sure was keeping the other nation so uncomfortably tense in front of him.

Slipping off his silver crucifix, the representation of the holy church gathered his son's hands between his own. He cupped Veneziano's palms together and then slid the silver between them, holding fast when the younger nation jerked away from the talisman. Vatican hushing him softly when Veneziano turned wide, terrified eyes on him.

"Calm... calm... do you remember what I said downstairs?" Veneziano was shaking so terribly that the Holy See didn't know whether to let go or try holding on tighter, but he made himself stay as he was. The fear had a source, an origin which Romano had been too ashamed to describe with words, one that made Seborga go pale and shiver whenever Vatican asked if he'd seen something in his dreams. Vatican knew of the monster that had taken the face of someone Veneziano had loved, but the rest he had inferred from the scars on his son's sleeping body, the shame in his brothers' eyes, and the absolute terror gripping him right now.

"There was a time, yes, when God could not see you." It felt like sacrilege, and on some level it must have been blasphemy, but he couldn't change what they were both certain of. "But he did not abandon you, my child." There were tears again, silent, exhausted things that stung Veneziano's bloodshot eyes and forced his gaze down to the silver piece cradled in his hands. The cross didn't burn his skin where he touched it though, and even if a simple piece of silver couldn't take away the sin, it could remind him that such things could be forgiven.

"God as my witness, Feliciano," his son looked up so quickly at the name, that personal, secret name, that the pleading look on his face almost scattered the Vatican's thoughts. "God as my witness, I will never forgive the creature that harmed you, and I will not let it haunt you anymore."

It was a slow and painful process, weaving the silver chain around Veneziano's right wrist to match the resin set around his left. But with his son's hands holding his tightly the Holy See let the broken soul rest his head down on his shoulder. They were both completely silent as he wept for a few more moments, his frail body refusing to come close enough to be held. It was only after Veneziano calmed down that he allowed himself to be coaxed towards the water.

It took chaste, careful hands to take away the jacket and the mish-mash of clothing he was wearing underneath it. A businessman's blazer and a young woman's shawl came away before the straps from the denim cover-alls were pulled off his shoulders, the filthy boots abandoned without socks, until finally Veneziano was resting weakly against the side of the tub wearing only the bandages and night-clothes he'd had on the 4th of November. The Vatican City State didn't comment when he saw the blood and tear in the off-yellow shoulder of the tee-shirt; the wound that had bled out had healed over already, nothing but a discoloured circle of raised flesh visible on his son's body as North Italy slowly inched the garment off.

Romano had put barely enough soap in the water to give it scent, so when Veneziano carefully slipped into the bath he hissed more from the warmth on his cold flesh than from the sting of the bath-salts on his few remaining open wounds. The deep basin swallowed him whole, Vatican coaxing him slowly to let his right hand fall under the water despite the presence of the silver cross- it could handle a bit of soap, but the left was kept out and Veneziano resisted submerging his shoulders in order to protect it.

Like a fool, South Italy had failed to bring out a first-aid kit, but as Vatican tracked down the fresh gauze and supplies himself the Micro-nation felt forgiving. The heat and subtle scent in the bath-water together were enough to calm Veneziano down when he came over with the items, calmly asking permission with his eyes before daring to touch the abused limb. The man in the bath didn't so much consent as he did carefully reach up and try undoing the knotted brown gauze himself, but he didn't fight off Vatican's touch when he took over for him.

The wounds were... healing. That was about as much as he could say. The initial gun-shot to his upper arm was still obviously trying to repair itself, having graduated from an open sore to a half-mended rip through the tender muscle.

"Can you move your fingers?" He asked quietly, watching Veneziano slowly make a fist, then separate his fingers one by one. They move stiffly and each gesture took time to form, but like the bullet wound over his elbow his arm was slowly getting better. The tear down his forearm had finally closed but the stitches that had held it together had no impact on how it had healed, the deep rift running jaggedly down the split limb. The flesh was puckered and an angry red colour, the remains of those threads and knots showing where the stitches had broken from additional stress, or were still embedded after a month of poor care and neglect. It was obviously sensitive to the touch, but the entire limb would have to be cleaned...

Later. They would deal with it later, not now.

With a deep breath, Veneziano slid his disfigured arm under the still surface of the bath-water, wincing sharply and giving a hiss before he made himself relax, slowly inching down the back of the tub until the bullet wound was covered too. All the grime on his skin was already turning the water cloudy, but once he'd settled a bit more he accepted a soft rag and gingerly began scrubbing himself clean. He seemed exhausted before he was half-done his own torso and neck, but Vatican kept his distance just the same.

"Do you want to cut your hair?" It was long now, the red locks going just past his chin instead of hovering around his ears like they were supposed to. With a small jug and silent permission, Vatican poured more hot water over his son's head to help wash him, his auburn hair quickly twisting itself into subtle curls and long waves as it was doused.

He didn't respond to the question right away, lathering up his head and working the suds awkwardly into his scalp. He was struggling with it though, his right hand fumbling and losing strength. He had to stop several times just to lean against the tub and catch his breath, until finally Vatican offered to help him. Veneziano refused.

Patience, and he carefully crouched down next to the tub, waiting for his silent son to look at him again. Finally, in a soft voice he asked:

"Do you trust me, Veneziano?"

And his son took a deep breath before, of all things, he shook his head no.

It hurt. It hurt in a way he didn't expect, a sharp pain he wasn't used to feeling and couldn't quiet explain the origin of. Nations were not, by nature, the most trusting entities, but Vatican was used to his political status as something outside the usual schema, something beyond borders and alliances and international laws. He was used to individual groups within nations looking at him with disdain or making a challenge towards him, and he responded in kind, but from a nation itself? From _Italy?_ He...

Vatican wasn't sure where he was looking in the bathroom, but when he felt one dripping hand tug on his sleeve he looked up again. Veneziano was staring blankly at nothing, brown suds slipping down his forehead, but he made a fist and extended two fingers, then made a clipping motion with them.

"Scissors?" Veneziano nodded, but his eyes remained focused on the edge of the tub. He could barely sit up straight, but he seemed determined...

Getting up, Vatican padded around the tub until he found the abandoned gauze and supplies, pulling a slim pair of steel scissors from the pile before coming back to his son's side. Veneziano had his good arm hooked over the edge of the tub to keep himself up now, struggling to raise the left one up out of the cooling bathwater. He was confused when the weakened nation opened his hand for the instrument, but Vatican handed them over and quietly watched.

It didn't make any sense, the way he began pawing at his hair with his clumsy, broken hand. His half-washed hair was tangled and slippery, but Veneziano winced sharply when his fingers found whatever they were looking for. The left side of his head? He brought the scissors up...

"Veneziano?" His right hand had the dexterity to part the blades and place them right up against his, wait- "What are you doing-!"

Veneziano winced sharply, but the scissors closed around one lock of hair before Vatican could stop him. Pain lanced the other body and Vatican felt fear riding the wave of sympathy that washed over him, fear that this was too much, fear that after everything that had happened, this act was too much for any of them. The scissors dropped into the murky bathwater before Veneziano pulled his hand away from his hair, a long lock of curled red coming down until it was left floating on the soap suds.

Cutting hair was hardly irreversible, even if it was _that_hair, but the issue was not the result, it was the act. Veneziano kept his eyes closed, his body twisting as he dropped his head to the edge of the bath. Vatican reached down to cup his face with one hand, suddenly worried that the stress and exhaustion might send him slipping down under the surface. It was a foolish thought, but it was there, and it didn't go away until he felt Veneziano strain his left hand again, rigid fingers looking for his to hold before he felt a kiss on his palm.

By God he did not want honour and respect right now. Vatican wanted his dopey, idiot son back, the one who would jump on him with hugs or make fun of him for trying to cook, the one with a radiant grin and fancy-free laugh.

He didn't want this anymore, he didn't want any of this, he never had. He embodied the belief in one life that will lead to one rebirth and everlasting joy for the pious and torment for the sinners. He did not want to hear that his son was dead, but he was really alive, but he was going to die, but he was only asleep, but he was gone for good, but now he was_ home. _Two thousand years of religion and politics and fighting was worth nothing in the face of _all of this..._

Vatican didn't care that there was soap on his face. He didn't care that there was dirty, oily water on his cheek and nose as he pressed his lips against wet, tangled red hair. He cared that his son didn't trust him anymore, that he was scared of him, scared that he would- would what, exactly? Hate him? Condemn him? Blame him? _Hurt_ him?

He closed his eyes because he felt Veneziano move his head just enough so he was leaning on him again. He kept them closed because the pain in his eyes felt like tears.

"We... should get you to bed." He rasped, placing one hand on the back of Veneziano's head, his other hand resting on his bare shoulder, high above the wounds maiming his arm. It took several long, silent moments before Veneziano even tried to acknowledge his voice, his weight resting awkwardly on Vatican's shoulder and arm while he took deep, slow breaths. He was completely exhausted...

Eventually Veneziano managed to lean back against the edge of the tub again, Vatican protecting his eyes with one hand as he emptied another jug of water over his hair to rinse away the soap. He hadn't been allowed to touch his hair before, but without the curl Veneziano didn't seem to care anymore. Once that was done, the rest of him could have stood to be rinsed off too, but just Vatican fished the plug out of the murky water without comment. More than anything else he needed to sleep, and he'd need more help getting there than he would taking another bath tomorrow.

In the same vein: if his arm could wait until Veneziano was dressed and bundled up under the blankets in his room, then his hair could take days to address without concerning anyone. The red strands slipped down the drain without another thought, and the Micro-nation carefully helped his son stand up instead of worrying about his own foolish, late-in-coming questions and pains.

So, armed with a thick towel the Holy See helped his exhausted son out of deep tub. He still had both the rosary and the silver cross with him, and the father slipped both around his child's neck without comment, wrapping him up in two separate towels before taking his good arm and helping balance him on his way to the hall.

Seborga was still hovering outside when they opened the door, hurrying ahead of them into the bedroom. It would have been better for Veneziano to let them dress him, but once he was seated on the bed, he mechanically reached for the first piece of clothing and pulled it over his head, ignoring Seborga's question about whether he wanted pants or shorts. They couldn't touch him while he fought to cover himself up, but when Vatican tried to slip out briefly he was called back by a soft gasp and a very lucid stare.

"Why don't we let it dry some more before we deal with it? Is that okay?" Seborga was choking on his words when he asked about the mangled scar running down his brother's arm. The tears made the green in his eyes stand out vividly, and his hands were shaking as he pulled the thin sheets and thick quilts over his sibling's legs and waist. Veneziano's brown eyes were barely open, but he just gave a slow, heavy nod to answer the question. Either he didn't notice, or he just didn't mind that the mutilated limb was exposed in front of them...

The bedroom curtains had been drawn shut so they would block the late afternoon light pouring in from the street, the window closed to keep the crisp December air away and hold back the noise of the cars going by. This room had been sealed for months, Romano only having finally opened it when he received America's call. Everything had been dusted and wiped down, tidied up to the point where it was almost too clean to be comfortable, but that wasn't South Italy's fault.

"Do you want us to go and let you sleep?" For a moment Veneziano didn't move, but Vatican noticed his right hand groping slowly for Seborga's. It seemed like a no. "Then I'll stay right here, okay?" A squeeze, so that was probably a yes. The younger Micro-nation sank down onto the edge of the bed, both of his hands wrapped around his brother's right and holding on gently.

"...Veneziano?" Nothing. "Brother..."

"Let him rest..." Speaking softly, the Holy See brought his hands down gently on Seborga's shoulders, the two of them watching their family member lay reclined on pillows and swaddled in fresh blankets, his scarred face relaxed and framed by damp, tangled red locks. His eyes were closed and he was taking long, slow breaths.

Neither one asked the other what would happen if he didn't open those eyes again...

* * *

Canada was _not_ a fan of waking up early. He was a nation of builders and wilderness-conquering explorers, or at least that was how he'd grown up, but there just wasn't much sense in waking up too long before the sun did. Maybe half an hour before dawn. Maybe. Enough time to wake up and shower before the sun started wasting daylight over the horizon, but otherwise no; Canada liked to sleep.

Especially in winter. _Especially_ with the Christmas season ramping up from coast to coast.

So who was calling him at almost 4am? Well if the strong arm around his waist was any indication, then it wasn't Russia. Groping blindly in the dark for the phone buzzing on the night table, the Canadian was tempted to huck the electronic against the wall for daring to wake him up, but when he pressed it to his ear and spoke he was habitually civil.

"H... Hello?" Slurring the greeting, Canada was doing his civic duty and quietly focused on himself for a moment, looking for the spots of tension in his political frame-work, or the labour troubles that had been cramping his leg for the last few days. Was there anything explosive going on? Any fast-rising tempers? A little bit. But none of it felt new.

"_Oi, are you awake?_" Who was that..?

"Yes?"

"_Good, you need to answer something."_ Huh?

"I... Italy?" That accent, the straight-forward style... Canada checked his bedside clock and groaned. "Italy it's not even five here, what do you want?"

"_When was the last time your brother slept?" _What? Oh no...

"What's he done _now?_" Italy was probably calling from Rome, which meant America was somewhere in the country, so Canada would have to book a flight out to-

"_Oi, answer the question: when does he sleep?_"

"At night?" What was going on?

"_Very funny, jerk."_

"He's in Europe, I'm in Ottawa." So where did Italy get off making demands out of nowhere? "I don't know, ask him yourself."

There was a huff through the phone, but no real answer.

"_Fine, if you're not gonna help then I'll figure it out myself."_

"What?" Behind him, Canada felt Russia shift heavily on the mattress and press his face to the back of the blonde's neck. "What are you talking about?" Figure out what? What did America's sleeping habits have to do with anything? He was always early to bed and early to rise, it was one of his mottos. "Italy?"

"_Listen, with all the shit I've been dealing with are you really gonna admit that you jerks can't keep a fucking eye out for one another?"_ There was a difference between Italy being grumpy and Italy actually getting mad, and Canada slowly sat up when he realized he was dealing with the latter. "_So fuck it, go back to sleep if it means that much to you, he's just your fucking brother."_

Sleepy as he was, the words stung and Canada couldn't feel his temper well enough to make it burn. The line went dead before he could think of anything to say, sitting cold and awkward in his bed staring down at the smart-phone in his hand. The mattress shifted again and Russia sat up next to him, yawning quietly and stretching a little before ultimately wrapping Canada up in his arms again, a slow, sleepy way of asking what was wrong.

"Matvey?" He didn't know how to answer his own name, paralysed between getting up and placing a call to Washington, or just lying back down and waiting for a decent hour.

"I don't know..." He answered softly, slowly twisting around and placing a hand on Russia's chest. With a gentle push, the two of them slipped back down onto the plush mattress, Canada laying his head down on the other nation's chest and feeling the warmth through Russia's thin night-shirt. He kept the phone in his hand, thumb brushing back and forth over the Blackberry's dark screen, but he couldn't think.

"Does Italy need something?" He'd called without checking time-zones, and he'd hung up after making a spiteful comment. Canada should have dismissed it but instead he wiggled down closer to Russia and buried his face in his shoulder, trying to escape the words. "Is it America?" He didn't want to hear those words either...

"He's just my brother..." Italy's sharp, bitter, angry words...

* * *

**There are two pages in the middle that are, sadly, hot-off-the-press writing so might have more errors than normal. This is because Vatican had a month to come up with Papa feels, but chose to let it all come out when I came back to edit out a tiny detail about hair to comply with later chapters. I had him wash Feli's hair without any kind of comment, but had hair be an issue in like... 24 or something, so I came to change that, and I got this. Bad Vatican, bad.**

**Not as bad as Spain though. Next chapter is the Spain chapter, so I'm just going to sit here and hiss at him.**

**Review? Even a little one? I'll see everyone next week, I'm off to work on Chapter 21 and get ready for Practicum!**


	17. Raise Your Voice

**Shattered, This is Where I Fall, Starvation, Payphone, Lily and Severus, Snape's Demise, See What I've Become.**

******Hey guys! I finished chapter 21 on Saturday and am a good way through 22, so I'm gonna take the opportunity now to renege on that bit about being almost done. This fic'll hit the 30s I'm sure.**

**While you read this I'm just going to sit here and hiss at Spain, because this chapter took way, way too damn long to finish. Stupid Spain. Bad Spain. Go away, Spain.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Raise Your Voice

Warm.

It was the first thing he could feel. He was warm.

Need.

It was the second thing he could feel. He was still in need.

It was painful- not the warmth, the warmth was nice. But the need hurt. It was a twisting, powerful pain in his gut that wouldn't let go. Even when he slowly rolled over onto his side in the warmth, the twisting and tightening kept getting worse.

Hunger that wasn't his hunger, confusion that wasn't his confusion. He could feel himself- his arms, his legs, his chest, his neck, his head, his hands. But he could feel something else, something _more_ than him: his roads, his streets, his markets, his rivers, his schools, his dams, his libraries, his town halls, his parks, his trains.

He could taste ration packets and filtered water. He could feel the cold damp creeping through tarp enclosures. He could hear the groan and roar of construction equipment. And he knew the deep, crippling, agonizing pain in his gut from frustration burning out of control, all the loss and grief of something more than him, embodied by him, represented by him.

And it _hurt_.

But the hand didn't hurt. He flinched but it didn't hurt, so he stayed curled up on his side with his eyes shut. His head and shoulders were propped up on the soft, and the warm was draped over and around him, keeping him safe. The hand moved back over his cheek and brushed down through his hair, leaving him before it came back again. The hand didn't hurt. It didn't take away his pain, but it didn't add to it.

Safe.

It was the third thing he could feel. He felt _safe._

His eyes didn't open until something soft touched his forehead, something he wasn't sure of, because his mind stopped thinking about the feeling. He could smell something, something that made him breathe deeply, trying to understand what it was. Familiar, he could smell something very, very familiar.

Safe familiar. Warm familiar.

Cut grass and cold, slick pebbles. Water had a scent, not sterile in a glass but sparkling under the golden sun. Curing cheese and the faint hint of basil, he could smell the cool breath of the wind curling over a high, rolling hill.

_Seborga._

The soft touch kissed him again and he opened his eyes this time, not a lot, just enough to see the dusty brown of the warm wrapped around his body. He could sense the height of the bed (warm, comfortable), was aware of the light from the window (not high, not barred), and felt the gentle… um… the soft- wait.

What was that? Comforting. Warm. Soft. Familiar. Not Seborga.

_Yes, Seborga._

No, not Seborga. Seborga didn't make sounds like that. Didn't purr like that.

_Purr?_

The cat.

_What cat?_

"Gino stop." The cat Seborga whispered too, the brown thing that moved over the blue bedding in front of him before he felt the gentle touch a third time. A five-toed paw tapped his forehead, a subtle mew breaking through the deep thrum of the feline's purr. "Let him sleep."

The paw was brushed away by fingers, Seborga's sleeve carrying those fresh, familiar, comfortable scents and all the memories that came with them. He waited for the hand to brush over his face and hair again, not sure why that seemed like a good thing, but when it didn't come he wondered why not. From across the bed and hidden behind the grey body of the cat, he felt the mattress shift and the other person sighed.

Moving his hand as far as he dared, he was surprised when his fingers found something so warm and so inexplicably soft. But the cat responded, and he heard another soft mew before the small animal was standing and turning around on its small space near the head of the bed, petting its own head and then pushing its back into his hand. He barely had to do anything, silky hairs slipping under his fingers and palm, warmth brushing back and forth, again and again over his skin. It was nice…

"Ah, sorry… did we wake you?" Wake him? Maybe, but it was alright… The cat turned again, purring loudly, and he wasn't quite ready for when the pet bumped its nose right against his. Wet and slightly cool, there was something dusty and familiar about the scent of warm fur and the feeling of that constant, rumbling sound.

The cat was grey and brown, the patches of white along its belly a little off-putting, but the animal just nuzzled him again and again, tail swishing until the cat seemed satisfied and curled up under his chin with its rump pressed to his chest. His arm wound itself slowly around the tiny warm body, the cat's nose touching his wrist and then craning around looking for his chin to bump and nuzzle. It was a hello, a how-are-you, an I-love-you, and a pet-me-more all in one.

He smiled. And he stiffened when the hand gently brushed back over his hair again, but he could smell the familiar things and he heard the soft, familiar voice, and he set his head back down on the soft and familiar warmth.

The walls were not white, and the floor he couldn't see. The cat was making noise so it wasn't completely silent, and the light was tinged with yellow and orange, not glaring with florescence.

He didn't know where he was anymore, and he couldn't remember the name of the someone whose hand touched his face again, but he was warm and he was safe, and all the need and the pain and fear could wait. It could just wait.

It could just wait for this good dream to end.

* * *

Reintroducing San Marino to their brother was the same slow, anxious process it had been with the other two. At first Veneziano was scared and the Micro-nation had to be coached on how to approach and be patient with him, but after a careful hour of him coming and going from the upstairs bedroom, Veneziano reached out to touch him.

That was the benchmark, the goal anyone who wanted to be near Veneziano had to aim for. If he tried to touch someone's face, or their hand, or look them in the eye, then it was their fucking responsibility to do what he wanted and be patient about it.

That was why America wasn't allowed to leave, not even when Spain showed up the next day from the hotel Romano had put him in. He didn't mind that the tomato bastard was there, in fact it was good for someone a bit further outside the family to come see Veneziano, but when Spain set his sights on America, Romano got between them.

"Why is he here?" South Italy pushed the Spanish nation into the den, nearly tripping over the blankets America had been sleeping on while using their couch as a bed. Spain was still stretching his neck trying to peer around Romano and get another look at the super power hunched over the kitchen table, but the shorter country wasn't going to let him. It pissed him off when Spain placed both hands on his hips and stared down at him, like of all things he was going to lecture Romano on who he let stay in his own god-damned house. "France told me everything about what happened in Venice. If he's causing you trouble then-"

"He's here because I said so." Romano interrupted, irritated that Spain thought he didn't know how to kick a bum off his couch. "He's my guest."

"Well maybe he should be the one in the hotel, not me." Spain said the words in such a bitter way that Romano was convinced he'd heard him wrong. Since when did he sound bitter? Since when did he scowl like that? Why the hell was he scowling?

"Shit, Spain, if we were in Naples then there'd be enough rooms, but you can't-"

"I'm not talking about space, Romano, I'm talking about safety." Don't fucking interrup- "It would be _safer_ for America to stay in a hotel. I don't mind staying there too, but you shouldn't keep him here."

"Why the fuck not?" Challenging him in his house, Spain was challenging Romano in the middle of his _fucking_-

"Because it's dangerous!" Spain urged, and Romano felt his shoulders begin to hurt from holding them so stiffly. He could feel his nails biting into his palms too. "He's completely unstable and you're nuts if you let him stay here another hour. Now that Ita's back you should just put America on a plane and-"

"Get lost," Romano snapped, biting his tongue just to keep from adding anything right away. It hurt, but it didn't work. "No, don't argue, come back when I'm not pissed at you." Because this, right here? This was pissing him off. "I told you he's my guest, now either shut up or go away."

"No." _No? _"Romano I'm serious."

"So am I. We're not arguing about this." And Romano was going to get some fucking respect. He'd understood it when people had come barging into his house when he'd been sick, or in the chaos of trying to address what the fuck had happened up north, but this was going too far. "Spain."

"Do you have any idea what he was like in Venice?" Spain pushed, wired and pissing all over Romano's fraying temper.

"A fist-fight, big deal." He'd had the rest explained to him by the Holy See, all of it coming to light long after Romano had passed the point of getting mad or caring all that much. "Neither of us were even there so just shut up about it."

"And let you fall back into trouble again? Forget it!"

"What?" He didn't know how to take that rebuttal, and when Spain advanced on him with a dark scowl and a wagging finger, Romano swallowed the fury that shot up his throat.

"Every time I turn around, something new and terrible starts happening around you two." Spain lectured, like they were back in the eighteenth century. Romano just wanted to punch him but Spain kept going:

"For months now you've been nothing but bad dreams, riots, financial collapse and natural disasters!" He said it like Italy had done it on purpose! "I let you go home alone last summer after we thought everything was done, and then without telling me you started giving ultimatums to the rest of Europe!" Rest of Euro- _Switzerland was not all of Europe!_ "You think that after watching you play with your army like it's just a big joke," _JOKE?_ "-and work yourself into the ground that I'm going to just let you harbour an international thug in your brother's house? Are you _insane?"_

"It's not your fucking decision!" And it was Romano's house too!

"Well it should be!" Spain never got mad, and yet here he was, shouting and getting- "I'm not going to save you again, Romano! Not if you keep taking these risks when you're already making a mess of everything!"

"What the _hell?_"

"Don't act like you don't know!" No, Romano knew, he just- "My boss is breathing down my neck for results and you won't give a straight answer about any of the help I've already given you! Where is the stimulus I gave you? Where are the exports I'm buying from you? Where are the Italian professionals I gave work and study visas to?"

"Spain-"

"And don't get me going on all the banking shit you've started! Foreclosures, business audits, government cuts, and NATO- of all things!_ NATO!_ You think you can just drop everything and ignore the world just because you-!"

"We have more important shit to deal with than fucking Afghanistan!" Romano boomed back, sharp, hot humiliation stinging him when he said the words, his cheeks flushing at the simple mention of that failed war and Italian retreat. He'd _had _to do it!

"Well what about me!" Spain roared, and Romano inched back to get away from the foreign sound. When Spain stepped forward with a hand raised and followed him, the Italian shrank back even further- "If you think you can just dismiss me like this then you're dead wrong! This isn't just about you and your brother _and it never was!_ Do you have _any_ idea how much the rest of us have given up just so _you-!_"

"Italy, _wait-!_"

Romano heard America, but he _saw_ his brother first. He took one more step back for distance and in that moment Veneziano was between him and Spain, his back to Romano and his arms spread to either side, body-blocking the other nation from trying to close the gap again. The shouting stopped immediately.

Why was he down here? How had he taken the stairs alone? Romano's heart was slamming against his ribs and he could barely distinguish it from the footsteps tumbling down the stairs. He knew America was behind him and his brothers probably were too, but Veneziano wasn't moving, and Spain seemed awe-struck by the sight of him. Just the fact that the bastard was staring like that convinced Romano that no matter what, the tomato bastard had to go.

Veneziano really was a sight though, his hair was still too long, and too red as far as Romano was concerned- something was missing. He wasn't standing straight either; his body hunched over slightly, shoulders raised and both elbows bent, one foot resting back like he was getting ready to lunge if necessary. He was cleaner than he'd been yesterday and his body was consumed by grey sweatpants, socks, and a hooded sweatshirt, but Romano could see the way his brother's hands were twisted like claws, and whatever his face looked like it was giving Spain a long, shocked pause.

"…Italy," Romano wanted to be the one to speak first but Spain took the opportunity instead. He brought both hands up slowly, palms out, and Romano wanted to hiss at him for trying to smile right now, hating the stupid chuckle the tomato bastard conjured up. "Ah, no, it's not what you think." Or really? He didn't know which one to focus on, but when Spain started reaching forward with one hand, gesturing to Romano himself, the casual airs he was putting on were insulting. "But Romano and I have some serious business to discuss, so-"

_Slap!_

Veneziano reacted so quickly that Spain flinched back after having his hand smacked down, the Iberian stepping away as a long, feral growl pulled everyone's attention briefly down to the floor. Romano couldn't remember the last time their dopey housecat had growled at someone. He couldn't remember the last time Gino's brown ears had been slanted back against his skull, or when he'd puffed up every inch of fur so the animal looked twice as big as it was supposed to, but it didn't matter.

"Spain, you should leave." It didn't matter, because Veneziano's familiar was reacting even worse than Veneziano himself, and Romano was at his limit. "If you don't want to help anymore then don't, just _get out._"

"Romano-"

"How _dare_ you desecrate this house?" Papa's voice was a low, grave sound behind them, sinister and brimming a kind of barely-concealed hate. Romano just wanted to reach out and touch his brother, but Spain hadn't even been that bold and he'd been struck down for a simple gesture. "You've done enough damage, Spain."

"I'm trying to _help!_"

"By upsetting him!" It meant something for Seborga to step up and say something. Romano's youngest brother appeared next to Veneziano and quickly reached out for his hand. He jerked violently when Seborga tried touching him, but the Micro-nation persisted until his fingers were wrapped around Veneziano's curled ones. Romano watched Spain purse his lips tightly, arming himself with insults and threats if the taller nation dared to take a verbal swipe at the Principality.

"Romano, stop them." Spain urged instead, and Romano clenched his jaws at the thinly veiled order. "This is a mistake, I'm here to-!"

Veneziano rushed him. He didn't charge like a bull or even touch the other man, but in two firm strides he crowded him and sent Spain tumbling back almost into the wall. The room exploded with shouting voices and Romano couldn't think fast enough to stop himself from screaming at the Spaniard to get the _fuck_ away from his little brothers! Both of them!

"_I was a knight of God!"_ Seborga never shouted, but he broke away from Veneziano and was hissing and spitting in furious Latin._ "Don't you even __**pretend**__ you can come in here and-_"

"Money? You want to talk _money?"_ San Marino muscled his way past Romano, and Spain finally got it together enough to start moving away from them and head for the front door. With three micro-nations there to hiss at and harass him Spain didn't look back, and although Romano watched him he quickly spun back around to look at Veneziano instead.

"Veneziano." Watching his brother stand like that was difficult. He was shaking, visibly trembling with his back still turned on Romano, still facing the wall where Spain had been before running away. The sound of the front swinging open and then slamming shut caused him to sharply bend over and nurse his side, one hand slipping down his hip and rubbing it like he was in pain. The voices were still going outside, but it was quiet between the walls now, Romano didn't even know if he should speak.

"Sit down, you fool, I can't believe you just came down here and did that." But he had to speak, and actually he could believe it. His brother's shoulders were bent down heavily now, Veneziano dropping his head for a moment before shaking it. Why? What was he refusing?

"Veneziano-"

His brother took a breath and Romano watched him straighten and suddenly turn around. The act alone was unexpected, but his face was something else. It wasn't the scars, or the long hair, or the pale complexion than struck him, it was the harsh, accusing look his brother was trying to wear before Veneziano's face seemed to crack. His entire body gave a small jolt when their eyes met, and Romano watched half-mustered judgement crumble in Veneziano's beaten brown eyes, the firm set of his thin lips breaking apart as the strength he'd started forming drained right out of his limbs.

"Woah! Calm down, _calm…_" Veneziano started to fold and Romano jumped to catch him, breaking the unspoken rule of letting their brother reach out first. He didn't scream or pull away though, staring up at him without words as Romano hooked his arms under his shoulders. He felt Veneziano reaching out and grasping at his shirt, pulling weakly on his arms before the older brother pushed them both down onto the couch. He sat down heavily and Veneziano was right there next to him, in front of him, still staring and beginning to pant and gasp frantically. Cold hands grasped his face and Romano tried to hush the tears that welled up and dripped down his brother's cheeks.

"It's me," Romano whispered. "Look, little brother, it's really me, I promise." He'd wanted to wait, damn it. He'd wanted Veneziano to be _calm_ when this happened, after he'd gained some of his strength back, after he was comfortable being around the rest of their family again. Not like this, he hadn't wanted to dump another jarring, confusing change on his brother's head this soon.

"_I… I don't…_" He pulled Veneziano's hands up from his cheeks and let his brother's fingers sweep over his lips and brush by his eyes. Romano let him touch his hair and, when his touch strayed down under his chin, he diligently tilted his head back a little. There was no scar across his throat, but would that just convince his brother or confuse him? "_I don't…"_

Oh god, his _voice_…

Romano closed his eyes and felt his throat tighten, looking at his brother again when he felt rough fingertips brushing against his eyelashes. Veneziano wouldn't stop shaking and he was crying so much harder than Romano, but his mouth was open around the husky, broken words he was trying to say:

"_I don't understa-and…" _His voice cracked in the middle and all the music that was supposed to follow his words was drowned out by the coarse, unkind rasp of his breaths. He left his mouth hanging open after he spoke, his jaw hinged in place but just jerking back and forth like he didn't know what to do with it. Romano hadn't heard him speak in so long, and if he hadn't just watched it happen he wouldn't have been able to connect that sorry sound to the person he was supposed to be holding.

"Neither do I," he admitted softly, horrified and heartbroken, "but you're safe here, I promise." He was safe, he was home, and things were going to start getting better now. Romano stroked his brother's face with one hand and it hurt when Veneziano flinched at the soft gesture, but his brother looked so scared at the same time that he couldn't just leave him alone. He hadn't been this frightened and beaten since the end of the world wars, and even those scars hadn't been cut as deep as these…

"Veneziano," he flinched again and Romano slowly pulled his hand away, his other arm still under his brother's shoulder. Veneziano was leaning hard on his side, slowly extending one leg and rubbing his hip again with his hand. He closed his eyes and looked away, Romano's attention falling to the inflamed joint. "What's wrong? Show me." Veneziano shook his head and Romano held his breath for a moment, looking for patience.

"Are you hurt?" he asked softly, but Veneziano just kept shaking his head. "Come closer." Another rough shake, this time with the red strands of his hair catching on the tear tracks. He started struggling to take his weight off Romano's arm and the older brother took another sharp, painful breath.

"Feliciano_, please_…"

His brother flinched again and placed a hand between them on Romano's chest. Veneziano pushed with it and Romano felt his heart shatter, the muscle breaking down until it was just a bag of broken glass throbbing behind his ribs. Veneziano pushed harder, and Romano slowly pulled away, scooting back across the cushion and sitting there in silence. He watched his brother wrap both arms around himself and slowly double-over, shaking and crying without letting him help.

He was in so much _pain…_

"I'm sorry…" Romano'd wanted to wait. He hadn't wanted Veneziano to see him yet. It just confused him. It only hurt him even more… "I'm _sorry…_" After all of the dreams and hundreds of loops, so many stolen faces and polluted memories-

"_I c-ca-an't…"_

Romano had wanted to _wait…_

* * *

**Keep telling myself I should write a Canada scene right here, but I keep not wanting to actually do it. So I'm not gonna. ****But NO! I haven't forgotten about the rest of the cast. It's just taking a lot of time to come around to them because my pacing sucks.**

**See you guys next week! Comment on what you read? Maybe?**


	18. An American In Rome

**The Decision of the Loved, Ninna Nanna- Ghetonia, Not Enough, That mandolin song from HetaOni, Utopia, La Notte.**

**I somehow have 7 hours of teaching under my belt. Tomorrow is when the director comes in to observe me. There is a good chance I may spontaneously combust at some point during those 45 minutes. Or cry. I have been known to cry.**

**So you get a surprise update, because if I'm going down I'm taking the rest of you with me.**

* * *

_**HetaOni: Recovery**_

An American in Rome

It didn't take a genius to figure out that North Italy wasn't stable yet. America stayed in the house like he'd been asked, but he kept his distance from the afflicted nation because he just didn't know what he was expected to do. Should he go talk to him? Should he ask to leave? Should he help out around the house? There wasn't a whole hell of a lot to do except for cooking and laundry and America didn't really like going through other dudes' clothes.

After the incident with Spain, something America hadn't been able to get South Italy to talk to him about or explain, visitors were restricted to humans. The Italian Prime Minister and President both arrived at the household, but they stayed for less than an hour each before leaving again under dark clouds. One or two of Italy's neighbours from the complex also showed up, but mostly just to leave food before departing again without much to say.

It was obvious that North Italy had hurt his brother by not embracing him. America would have never pegged Romano as the kind of guy who liked to be hugged, or who looked for that kind of thing when he was upset, but the change in behaviour it caused was unsettling. The heavy-handed authority he'd used to keep the household going was basically knocked out of him after Italy's fit on the couch, and America had never felt like more of an outsider. He actually would have preferred to go with Spain, because even if the guy was suspicious of and didn't trust him, America knew what it felt like to stand in a room and have everyone down to the cat suddenly turn on him.

It'd been three days since America had brought North Italy home and he was still _'sleeping' _on the brothers' couch. Except he wasn't sleeping, and he hadn't been able to manage it for a good, long time either. Sleep was something America was learning to live without, and he was just glad that South Italy had too much on his plate to deal with already, so he left the American to his own devices in the living room.

He knew it was North Italy who'd originally wanted him to stay, but again, America hadn't actually seen him since that first terrible day. It was South Italy keeping him here now, shoving food in his mouth and staring him down until America curled up under the spare blankets on the couch. Even if he didn't sleep, at least the cushions were reasonably comfortable, and whatever he ate tasted good.

But he still didn't know what he was doing here, or why he should stay. He made exactly one call to his boss to let him know he was staying in Rome and not the construction zones up in Venice, but there wasn't much else to do after that. He didn't want to go home yet- well he did, but he really didn't, and he just couldn't- _augh!_

America really wasn't expecting the surprise that found him the next day, the day after South Italy sent Spain packing back to Madrid. He only opened the front door as a fluke because the Vatican City State was out, and San Marino and Seborga were getting groceries, and North and South Italy were upstairs keeping quietly to themselves. He opened the door because it was better than bothering the brothers on the second floor, but he didn't know what to do after that.

"Alfred?"

_SLAM!_

_SHIT. SHIT. SHIT._

* * *

The last few times Canada had visited Europe, something bad had happened. There was the conference in Bern, then the chaos in Venice, and now there was his brother in Rome. He had to figure that, unless he wanted to stay sequestered at home for the next fifty years, the only way to kick the losing streak was to try one more time to have a successful overseas visit.

So here he was already getting off to a bad start in Rome.

Canada expected Italy to open the door, not America, so that was his first surprise. When his brother slammed the door in his face that was his second one, and the muffled shouts and yelling from inside the house started setting off the Canadian's own alarms. He'd been directed to the house by Italy's office staff because he was taking a few days off from state work, and Canada was only in Rome because he knew better than to ignore whatever cryptic message Italy had tried giving him over the phone a few days ago.

'_He's just your brother'_, Canada was surprised by how much those words had stung him, or the way they'd sunk into his flesh and refused to let go. He'd gone over the conversation again and again since it had happened, to the point where Russia had knowingly implied that Canada would be more likely to visit Italy than follow him back to Moscow like they'd originally planned. Their trade talks could wait until Canada sorted everything out with his brother…

America wasn't _just_ his brother, and as awful as he'd been over the last few months, Canada felt like he deserved the scolding Italy had given him.

"Alfred open up!" So he knocked on the door again, pressing his thumb against the cold brass buzzer next to the unit number. Canada didn't consider the cloudy skies and brisk wind winter weather, but he knew the Italians passing him on the street were probably insulted by the fact that he wasn't even wearing a coat over his suit jacket, let alone a scarf or hat to protect himself from the cold. He might have sheepishly smiled down the street at the pedestrians if he hadn't been so focused on- "I just saw you! What's going on?"

It took another minute or two of knocking and buzzing before he got a response, the Canadian fighting off the sting of apprehension as he realized he was making a big fuss over nothing: obviously America knew he was here, he didn't have to keep ringing and-

"Ah, thank you." The door swung open and- "Italy? I'm sorry-"

He meant to say: _'I'm sorry for showing up out of the blue',_ but the angrily little brunette who answered the door next had a livid look to him and cut Canada off with sudden, brazen shouting. He didn't know what Italy was saying either, because when the Republic opened his mouth all that came out was a slew of Italian verbs and phrases. Canadian French couldn't help him here, and the jet-lagged nation almost tripped back down the stone steps to the street.

"English!" He begged, holding up his briefcase like a shield while Italy advanced on him, gesturing sharply and flinging more angry, unintelligible words at him. Why was he so mad! "Italy I just came to-!"

"I NEVER FUCKING ASKED YOU TO COME HERE; YOU WEREN'T INVITED; YOU DON'T HAVE PERMISSION; YOU FUCKING TRESSPASS IN MY TERRITORY AGAIN AND I SWEAR TO FUCK I'LL-"

"_Italy I'm looking for my brother!"_

"CONGRATU-FUCKING-LATIONS NOW _GO AWAY!_"

Canada was half-way down the street before he really knew what had happened. He was also running, which was something he stopped as he placed his hand against the stone side of a building and tried to catch his breath. Italy was gone when he turned around to look for him, but the screaming was still echoing loudly in his ears, and the confusion wasn't about to settle in his mind.

Unbidden, the Canadian suddenly wondered why he thought he'd seen someone with red hair standing in that house…

* * *

America didn't question Romano's methods when it came to Canada, but he wanted to. There was just something about watching someone shriek at and chase his brother away that hurt him to keep quiet.

He was thankful that he stayed quiet though, because by the time South Italy came back inside North Italy had begun anxiously pacing around the house like a caged animal. It obviously upset him when he saw Romano get into a fight, or whenever there was yelling or shouting in the house, so America owed it to North Italy not to let his temper go and pound the South into the ground.

"I called to talk to him, not to bring him here." Romano promised in smooth, careful Italian. He was straightening the white cuffs on his shirt when he came back into the house, shutting the door with his foot without making eye contact. Another reason America didn't jump to his brother's defense was just how sorry South Italy looked standing there. "We settled all of that when you got here and I'm not handing you off to those assholes now."

"I'm not a little kid." America wanted to laugh when he said it, but he couldn't find the energy for it. "I can take care of myself, usually."

"Usually." Romano repeated, and they both looked around when they heard North Italy shuffling about in the kitchen. The Italian dismissed it first and looked up at him, dropping his voice with a question: "Did you sleep last night?"

"Kinda." Kinda meaning no, but it was awkward to go there and he shuffled his feet trying not to think about it, hands in his pockets. "Is that what you called him about? Sleep?" What, was Canada supposed to be his nanny or something?

"You're not a little kid," Romano used America's words again and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. On the one hand it was nice to be agreed with for once, but on the other… "But neither is he. I wanted to know how bad all this international shit has been with you two, so I called to find out."

"Wait, should you even be telling me this?" America was confused. Wasn't this the part where Romano was supposed to shout _'none of your fucking business, motherfucker!'_? He felt out of his depth when Romano blinked at him and then shrugged, arms folded.

"If you don't want to know then don't ask. Jeeze, who taught you how to have a conversation?"

England.

America flinched at his own thought and tried to work it into an awkward shrug instead. It didn't work. South Italy just tsked sharply at him before putting things in the plainest way possible:

"I'm not going to let people into this house just because they took the time to come here." Like what had happened in Venice… "I don't know any other way to help him except to keep him safe, and I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you except that whenever you go out there you say or do stupid shit that upsets the world." But this was sounding oddly familiar… "If he finds out about your problems then it'll upset him even more than Spain did, so if you leave, you stay out." No, America had definitely heard this before, except this time it was… nicer.

"You don't want me to hurt North Italy with my temper…" China. China standing there smiling at him like a disobedient pet. China talking down to him like a toddler. China letting out just enough rope hoping he'd hang himself on the leash. "You just wanna be able to keep an eye on me…" chase him into a little hole and guard the way to keep him there…

"No." No? That was _exactly_ what he'd- "Alfred, I just want you to get _better_."

In that moment, America was torn between the rage of telling Italy to never _fucking _use that name again without permission, or letting go of himself to try and figure out what it all meant.

"I don't understand…"

"I'm not going to tell him that everything he did just led to the rest of you fighting for no reason." Romano wasn't looking at him properly anymore. His voice was quiet and South Italy was just staring at nothing, slowly mumbling his words. "But I can't keep him locked up in this house forever either. He has to be part of the reconstruction process, even if I handle all the policy he still needs to be there in those cities." Oh…

Wait a minute, the reconstruction, it-

"You're still afraid he's not gonna make it…"

Romano didn't answer him, and America was so thankful he'd held his temper in. The way South Italy's face seemed to age with worry lines and exhaustion was troubling, his green eyes losing their flare and just staring through nothing for a few moments. His shoulders were hunched and America wondered briefly if Romano's hands had always been so corded and rough-looking. He was an ancient nation, and for a moment South Italy was an old man…

"Don't make this about me," Romano said gruffly, but he didn't look at America again. "You need someplace where people are gonna stop bitching at you about policy and politics, right?" Right… "Then stay here."

"I have to go back home eventually."

"And until you do, you stay here." And let Lovino guard the door, not to keep Alfred inside, but to keep Yao and Matthew and Arthur away…

"I don't understand…" He didn't know why he said the words so softly, he didn't know why he had to repeat himself. Alfred just knew that he could feel himself slipping, feel the weight slowly crushing him and the anger leaving him raw and empty. He was running out of fuel and he didn't know how much longer he could keep propping himself up. "I don't understand anything anymore…"

He was staring at the floor when he realized he was crying again, something he'd fought off since he'd crumbled in front of Feliciano and- well, whatever Vatican and Seborga's real names were. A teardrop was resting on Texas' right lens, his teeth gritting together and his hands beginning to hurt from clenching them so hard.

"Do you understand Italian?" Alfred understood that this entire time they'd been conversing in English, the colonial tongue that he used so much he often forgot it was colonial… from _England…_

"_Yes._" So he switched to the other tongue, one of the many he knew. He switched to the thousands that had come on ships and wrapped in swaddling, the millions who had fled from poverty and war looking for a better life. He couldn't favour one diaspora over the other, but as a nation of immigrants Alfred had to acknowledge, however quietly and only to himself, that his human name was as English as it was Italian.

"_Then come eat some lunch, I think my brother's hungry."_

* * *

Romano wasn't going to let anyone near his brother until Veneziano was ready for them. He wasn't going to let people cram into the house with all their noise and their drama and their politics. He didn't want anyone or anything to come along and upset him, because with only his brothers and America for company there were _more _than enough triggers lying in wait in a given afternoon.

When Veneziano wasn't dozing in the quiet then he was fidgety, nervous, and constantly checking over his shoulder in case anything was going to jump out at him. He hated being in the living room; he couldn't stand being in any room where he couldn't see everything with just a quick glance. Romano had never resented the open-plan layout of the first floor so much as he did after a few more days of his brother's intense anxiety. There were no doors between the entryway, the living room, the dining room and the kitchen, meaning there were no barriers, no locks, and no peace of mind for Veneziano.

His brother hated the windows too, because he didn't know what to do about them. Either he'd go around and open every window in the house or he'd hurry to slam them all shut and lock them. He suffocated in the still air, but the noise of the street running by their house paralyzed him whenever he heard it.

If any of them could have just agreed on whether or not they should move him then Romano would have taken him to his personal property outside Naples. It was quiet there, peaceful, but it was too far from where Veneziano needed to be in the north. Besides, if he couldn't handle the sight of people on the street then how would they keep him calm on a high-speed train?

Who Veneziano was with influenced his behaviour too. He was calmest with Seborga unless something startled him. If that happened, he'd leap to defend the Micro-nation so fiercely that it gave them all a scare the first time Romano accidentally dropped something in the kitchen. He was anxious but completely obedient with Vatican, but it was to the point where he refused eye-contact or to directly acknowledge anyone else without Papa's permission first. San Marino was the only one who could get him to do anything except eat and sit quietly in his bedroom: Veneziano would diligently follow him around the house and pick up things for washing, or help shape pasta for dinner, or stir a pot that was boiling. But if he made any kind of mistake he'd immediately shy away from the task and stand as far away from their brother as possible without leaving the room.

Romano only saw Veneziano alone with America once, and it was after South Italy came home from answering a summons at work. Veneziano'd had another fit over the window in his bedroom and America had calmed him down, the blonde fetching Gino after the cat had been locked outside, the nation depositing the animal in its master's lap. Then America'd sat with him, and talked to him, and by the time Romano had peeked in through the bedroom door the American had lost his composure again like before.

It was probably a good time to step in and remove him, but Romano had held off.

"_How did you know?"_ Because America wasn't screaming or shouting this time, and Veneziano looked hollow and exhausted in bed, but he was listening. "_You always knew, you were always completely sure, and I just __**can't**__-" _His brother was listening, and when America covered his face with his hands Veneziano reached out and carefully touched his arm. _"All I can say is I'm sorry, I just don't know any other words… I can't even pray…"_

He didn't want Veneziano burdened with things like that, but Romano still stayed quiet. He held his tongue and he didn't interfere, and he knew it was the right thing when Veneziano maintained his focus, when he didn't lose it and become distracted by something else going on around them. Maybe his brother was remembering the times when it had only been him and America left alive in the nightmares, but that didn't stop Veneziano from slowly coaxing America down until the younger nation was kneeling on the floor with his head down in Veneziano's lap. He showed America how to fold his hands together in prayer, and he hushed him with a gentle hand on his hair and complete, almost nurturing attention from above.

With America, Veneziano was reminded of where he'd been and of what had happened. Either he lost the will to panic and cower in its wake or he gained some kind of perspective that broke down the fear into something he could accept and manage. Romano didn't know which option was true; he just knew that it took all of his wavering strength not to hate America for being able to calm his brother, whereas whenever he showed his face Veneziano's world seemed to crumble all over again.

He was protective of Seborga and too ashamed to look Papa in the eye. He was desperate to please San Marino and willing to forgive America. But if he had to choose between the five of them then Veneziano would always look for and go to Romano first, because every little thing Romano did terrified him.

If he left the room unexpectedly then Veneziano would tear after him, if he picked up a knife in the kitchen then Veneziano would hover directly at his side until he put it down. If he was on the phone then his brother would pace back and forth nervously until it was over, and if he was reading something then he'd stand there torn between wanting to read over his shoulder or run away from the paper work.

Loud knocks, the door-bell, and ringing phones all set him off. Romano kept his phone on silent and warned the office away from calling the house phone until he just unplugged the damned thing. A week after he came home Veneziano had broken every analog clock in the house, including Romano's favourite pocket watch.

"That was a _gift._" From Veneziano himself, no less, a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old golden pocket watch. "I haven't wound it in years, it wasn't even ticking!" But it had still been smashed, and Veneziano was standing there looking shy and sheepish as he was scolded. Romano didn't want to yell at him, but, _c'mon!_ "You owe me a new watch now, bastard!"

He never did find out what his brother did with the gold case and broken pieces after that, but it probably wasn't important. It meant more to him that Veneziano nodded at the demand, like he understood why Romano was mad at him, but not pissed enough to give him a good thrashing for it.

There were more than enough things wrong with his brother. He threw a fit whenever Romano left the house for a few hours of work, and he had to be talked down from a sharp panic after another week went by and San Marino had to go home. They were only a week and a bit from Christmas, but the tiny Republic was being called away by his boss.

"I'll be back by Christmas Morning, fratellino, I promise." There was still reconstruction going on in the east and people needed to see their Nation… "Hush, you don't need these tears…"

After two weeks Veneziano was better about touching, but not good, only better. He let San Marino gently touch his face and wipe away the tears. He soothed him with kind words while Romano and the others hung back, trying not to be too obvious about watching.

"When's your flight to New York?" Romano asked quietly, watching America fidget uncomfortably by the door.

"Not for a couple hours…" was the sullen answer, and then the younger nation gave him a hesitant glance. "Thanks for… everything, really." Romano just shrugged, aware of what he was trying to say but not about to dwell on it and make them both uncomfortable. After that last show of weakness some kind of breakthrough had been made by the American. He still wasn't eating enough for a nation his size, but he was sleeping. Romano was wary of dreams, but he felt better about letting America go home for the holidays knowing that he could actually close his eyes and get some rest.

"Just remember what I said." Romano repeated, keeping his voice low and leaning against the wall, arms folded. Vatican stepped outside to make sure the taxi was still waiting to take both America and San Marino to the airport, and Seborga drifted over to Veneziano to help calm him down. "I can't have you barging back in here, but the house in Naples is empty." And the key to the front door was on the ring America had slipped his finger through and stuffed in his pocket.

"You really don't have to do this…"

"If you don't need it then don't use it. But if you do then just make sure you leave my garden alone." Romano had had a new key cut just for today, because even though it was a small gesture he'd already assured America that if he chose to come back to Italy, the same rule about no unexpected or unwanted visitors would apply to the Neapolitan villa just like it did in the Roman townhouse. It wasn't unprecedented: it was just a very, very old kind of courtesy that had fallen by the wayside over a few thousand years.

China would recognize this gesture. Sometimes, if he tried hard enough, Romano could dredge up the ancient, immortal memories of a red lacquered house and Grandpa Rome singing to the fish pond. In the ages when committing to exploration had meant sacrificing several years just to travel, having a small place to call home, even if it was the furthest place _from_ home, had been essential.

The Roman Empire had had it, so America was allowed to have it too.

"Alright, get out of here."

"Thank you, Romano."

"Out."

"Romano?"

"What?" South Italy was watching San Marino finally pull himself away from their brother, looking troubled as he picked up the small brief-case he'd brought with him for work- the case with his clothes in it was already in the taxi. When America kept bugging him, Romano looked away from Veneziano's devastated face and gave him a stiff glare.

"Next year." Next year what? America looked surprised for a moment, baby blue eyes wide as he seemed confused by the way he wasn't talking. "Not now, I mean-"

"English, you idiot." Romano interrupted. "You're going home, speak English."

America stopped and took a deep breath, an earnest expression no one had seen for months finally returning to his face. He looked so determined, but more like it was because he was proving something to himself rather than to anybody else.

"Christmas in New York." America said slowly, and Romano tilted his head to the side to show he was listening. "Not this year, but next year, I'd be honoured if you two would come and spend the Christmas season in New York."

"With all those lights and noise every-?"

"Tennessee then." America cut him off and then looked sorry for it, so Romano didn't snap at him. Where the hell was Tennessee? "I've got a ranch just outside of Memphis. It's quiet out there, just acres of rolling pasture and private land." Huh… well,

"Next Christmas is a long ways off." A lot could happen in just one year, look how much had happened to them just from this summer. The problem was that America had such a determined, anxious look on his face right now, pleading so fiercely with his eyes and pouting lip that Romano struggled to refuse. There, that was the American boy he was used to seeing. "We'll talk about it. Have a safe flight home, America."

It wasn't a no, but it wasn't a yes either. His words got America to smile- he didn't grin the way Romano sort of wished he would, but he took the words like a reward for trying so hard.

"Thank you." Yeah, yeah- "Thank you, thank you so much, I-"

-ACK.

"Put me down, you bastard!" Romano choked when he felt America wrap his arms around him in a crushing hug, the younger nation hoisting him into the air while he thrashed and hissed at him. "I said maybe! _May-fucking-be!_ Let me go!"

His feet found the floor again and Romano stomped around in a tiny circle, swinging his arms just to show how fucking not fucking impressed he was with America's enthusiasm. But the kid was still grinning, and when Veneziano appeared at Romano's side with a worried expression, the older brother calmed down.

"Alright, I'll be back as soon as I can." San Marino repeated for the eightieth time, finally ready to go as Romano nodded and checked to make sure their younger brother was okay. He was obviously still upset, but Romano knew better than to try putting his arms around him…

"The taxi's waiting."

"Thanks, I mean it, really, thank you. And it'll be so awesome at my house!" For the first time in months, America sounded like himself, and Romano held his brother's hand while Veneziano nervously watched the younger nation work himself up with excitement. "We'll have a huge tree, two trees! One inside and one outside, and they'll be covered in lights- like, nice lights, not the laser flashing lights but cool white ones like stars. And there'll be candy, and carol singing and-"

"Hey! Why don't you worry more about _this _Christmas?" Romano interrupted, aware of Veneziano shuffling behind him and resting his forehead against the back of his shoulder. He was exhausted by all the change. "Good bye, Alfred."

"You're coming to the conference in February, right? Hong Kong? I'll see you there, right?" God he was like a little puppy all of the sudden!

"The taxi is _leaving!_" Vatican called.

"_Alfred go!"_

"_Ciao, zio!_" Wait- what? "_I call shotgun!_" Hey!

"Hey, you bastard!" Romano dragged Veneziano with him until he was shouting over the threshold. The taxi _was _pulling away as America jogged after it, the American pulling open the passenger-side door and swinging his bag in with a triumphant laugh. It was futile, but Romano shouted after him anyways:

"Idiot! Don't go calling people-_!_"

"_See ya in_ _Hong Kong, uncle!"_

"HEY!"

But it was a little too late. The taxi sped up to merge with the light traffic down their street and it was gone around the bend before Romano could stop huffing and puffing. The last thing he heard was America's stupid laugh.

"_Asshole!_" Romano shouted, just on principle.

"Aw, I thought it was kinda cute, you know?" Seborga preened from behind them, grinning sheepishly when Romano rounded on him with a glare. "Hey! He's young, what's the harm?"

"He has bad luck with brothers-"

"But he called you his un-_"_

"_Shut up!" _Seborga giggled and Romano heard Vatican sigh down on the sidewalk, Romano scowling at his stupid brother before turning to the one who was still shyly clinging to his arm. Veneziano was teetering over the threshold but refused to step out across it, his fingertips grasping the edge of Romano's shirt without letting go. He didn't look scared, but he was getting anxious again, his brown eyes snapping quickly between the three of them and riddled with apprehension.

"Come on, you," Romano scolded, brushing Veneziano's hand off before quickly stepping back inside. "You and I have some work to do. Upstairs, c'mon."

"Work?" Seborga repeated,

"In his condition?" Papa chimed in. "You can't be seri-"

"Oh, stop it! He's fine for this!" Veneziano was confused, just confused as they all stepped back into the house, the door closing and calming him down with the quiet. Romano just jabbed him in the shoulder with one finger though, getting his attention before wagging that finger in front of him to keep it.

"You listen to me," he said clearly, not trying to _threaten_ his little brother, but he wanted his focus. Veneziano was bad about focusing. "You don't like it when the house is empty, do you?" It wasn't really a yes or no question, at least not worded like that; it took his brother a moment to work through the logic before he shook his head. No, he did not like it. "Do you want to see your friends again?"

It took another moment, but as soon as he understood Veneziano sucked in a breath, his shoulders hitching up as his eyes widened and-

"_Hey_- hey! Stop that." Romano caught his attention again, watching his brother take another breath and hold it tight, cowering and trying to fight off the panic. "Stop it, not those friends. I mean your other friends." Other friends… Veneziano was pleading with his eyes, still stuck on the other reference, still lagging behind and focusing on the wrong point.

"Romano, he's tired-"

"Shut up, it's a simple question." He answered Vatican but didn't take his gaze off his brother, watching Veneziano swallow hard and try to understand what was being asked of him.

"Do you want to see our neighbours?" And he didn't mean- "not the ones outside, I mean our _neighbours._ Our economic partners. Stop thinking like a person, Veneziano and think like a nation." That comment caught him off guard, and Veneziano closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head a little like he was dizzy. He reached out and Romano let him grab his wrist and slump over against his shoulder, sort of like he had before except a bit more dramatic. Maybe he was too tired… Maybe it was still too much too soon.

"Come on," Romano sighed, prodding him gently with one hand, encouraging him to slowly try picking himself up and standing on his own. "We'll take a short siesta, okay? You'll feel better and we'll talk then." Or, Romano would talk and Veneziano would just stare blankly at nothing… But his brother met his eyes again and Romano felt guilty for the harsh thought, silently thankful that Veneziano let him reach out a hand and touch his face without flinching…

"Just for heaven's sake, Veneziano… stop _crying…_"

* * *

**Wait, so Romano told Al he could stay as long as he needed, and then in the next scene he left the house? Yes, mostly because that first conversation covered the same basic ground in a different way from how I'd planned, and the only thing I could have put in between was unnecessary filler. It's a bit abrupt, but I think it's fine for now.**

**You guys have a bad habit of leaving me with silly review totals, first 69 and now 74? That's very mean. But as I will either earn my ESL-teacher wings or BURN and DIE and HUMILIATION and OH GOD WHY tomorrow then here you go, some Alfred not being a douche, and Matthew running like a little girl, and Lovi being a really swell dude.**

**OH GOD WHY**


	19. Seven Holy Days

**Decision of the Loved, This is Where I Fall, Memories, Letter from Heaven, Angels Pedestal, Hallelujah, Iris.**

**I am now an ESL teacher. Almost.**

**And thanks for all the guest reviews last week, guys! I tried to make this one a little bit happier?**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Seven Holy Days

The work required a map, a globe, and patience, but ultimately the brothers understood each other. With seven days left before Christmas, Romano made the first phone call.

* * *

Just to be clear: Poland hated flying.

He hated it.

He didn't just dislike it, he _hated it_. He didn't like seeing or hearing planes overhead, he didn't like the environment around airports and fields. He didn't like the noise or the pollution or the complaining, he hated airplanes and he hated flying and he hated all of it.

But it was ridiculous to take the trains from Warsaw to Rome, especially when he didn't know why he was being asked to make the trip. He also didn't know why he was being _asked_, wasn't Italy supposed to be a real hard-ass? A really impolite jerk? A bastard who Poland really resented for being who he was by virtue of not being the person Poland missed a whole lot?

Well whatever. He landed in Rome and he had no idea why he was down here, but the weather was so much warmer that, maybe, he was okay with being here. The clear weather made him feel a bit better for having been on a plane for several hours, but the blonde nation was still sketchy about being in this country right now. He'd been here for the immediate relief efforts, of course, because all the chaos in the northern half of the nation had warranted a full response from Europe, but…

But he was still _here…_

Where that person was _not…_

"This really couldn't wait until after Christmas?" Poland complained, surprised and disappointed when he saw Italy there to greet him at the airport and dressed up for work in a suit and tie. Poland had come in jeans and a heavy coat because he hated flying in a suit, and also to show how he _did not want_ to go flying around Europe for work. Oh and by the way it was exactly a week from Christmas, so there was absolutely no excuse for this.

"It really couldn't." Poland took heart in the fact that Italy looked a little awkward standing there, enjoying watching him mumble his words and glance around like he'd rather be anywhere else _with_ anyone else. Poland didn't hate South Italy, at least not when he'd _been_ South Italy, but centuries of friendship with North Italy had told Poland more than a few dirty secrets about the poorer, crime-ridden south.

It was hard with wounds this fresh not to hate Lovino Vargas, the dead man from the cursed journal, for taking his brother's place.

"So what's going on?" Poland snapped, following Italy through the winter sunlight until they reached a heavy black car, something Italian-made no doubt. His host took the small piece of luggage he'd brought with him and tossed it into the vehicle's trunk. They both climbed in and Poland was getting frustrated by the lack of explanation. Italy had been vague over the phone, but whatever it was had been important for the Italian Head of State to call Poland's boss and get him to force Poland on that stupid airplane.

Italy took a deep breath and then sighed as he drove, not meeting his eye.

"Give me your cellphone."

"_Excuse me?_"

"Look, I don't want to be an ass about it! Just do it!" They were already speeding towards Rome proper, and Poland's hands started itching to take the wheel and spin it so the car would veer off and crash. Or maybe he'd just punch the stupid Italian in the face, maybe that would work. "It's not some spy-game, Poland, I just can't have you telling anybody why you're here."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want them to know."

"Them? Know _what?_"

"Why you're here."

"_Don't talk in circles! _Tell me why you brought me here!" Not spy-games? Not espionage? "What kind of state business has me hand you my phone?"

"It's not state business!" Don't shout at him, Italian, don't shout at him or Poland would send him through the god-damned _window-!_

"Really? Oh _really?_ Your boss calls mine telling me to come here and that's not state-?"

"Fine! If you don't want to see him, then fine." Huh? "I'll take you back and you can get on another damned plane back to Warsaw." The car slowed down dramatically and Italy did a quick shoulder check, spinning the wheel to turn the nose of the car right around, the world tilting on an axis before Poland caught himself speaking again.

"See who?"

"Doesn't fucking matter, if I can't trust you to keep your damn mouth shut then who cares." No, no hang on that wasn't fair. Poland couldn't fight the churning in his gut when he heard that, the stirring of something that wasn't allowed to be hope, because hope had a tendency to hurt way too much and stab you hard in the back when you least expected it.

Reflexively, the pink smart-phone was slipped out of his pocket. Poland's fingers unhatched the glove compartment in front of his seat, the phone went in and the cubby was sealed again with a click. Poland didn't take his eyes off Italy.

The car slowed down and pulled over on the side of the road, Rome-bound traffic speeding by them on the high-way. South Italy turned off the engine and leaned his head back with a sigh, and by the time he found the breath to speak Poland could feel his heart beginning to break all over again.

"There are rules you have to follow with him…"

* * *

The first person Veneziano hugged was Poland.

It took everything Romano had not to hate him for having that honour.

* * *

Austria was a proper gentleman. Stoic in public and expressive in only very specific, proper ways, he was conditioned to give only the most appropriate response at any given moment.

"Who else knows about this?" And that was why he was struggling so hard with his composure right now, because the only appropriate response was to weep. Here in the corridor Austria was safe, but if he took one step into the dim bedroom before him, he…

"All of us on the peninsula," Vatican answered, his voice low and soft out of respect. "Then there's Spain and Poland, and America was the one who brought him home." Pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket Austria held the scented cloth up to his lips and nose. There was no offensive odour in the house, he simply wanted what little comfort he could squeeze from the lavender oils. Bless the Vatican City State for not rushing him to act right now.

"Italy and I have _fair_ relations, but-" He had to stop, had to swallow the terrible sounds and painful things choking his throat. "But our better years are behind us. France, or Germa-"

"He is free to request who he wants," the Holy See soothed, the two of them standing in the light spilling across the bedroom floor, the sleeping figure curled up on the bed holding Austria's rapt attention. "And he requested you."

"I… I shouldn't wake him-"

"He won't mind."

"Please, I-"

"Austria." No, please no, don't make him stay here. Austria couldn't feel the joy anymore, the awe and disbelief of Italy- _South Italy's_ explanation was gone. He was left with only this terrible, barely concealed kind of horror. It was the guilt Austria had begun to assess and deal with before deeming it unnecessary and highly irrelevant to the post-November 4th world. But now it was here again, and he couldn't stop it.

"I never died, you know." He said the words breathlessly, because it was that or cry them out. "Do you know how debilitating that is? Knowing that while all of that chaos and all of that horror was going on, I never even suffered for it?" Oh, look who he was speaking to. The ancient micro-nation probably had a better sense of that violation than Austria himself, but the former empire refused to empathize.

"I was there in every loop." Austria persisted, wondering why the other nation wasn't trying to interrupt him. Vatican was even meeting his gaze full-on and yet still allowed him to speak. "If I wasn't in the hotel or going off trying to find them, then I was actually there, outside, watching the chaos from the grounds. I… I went with Hungary, I went with Miss Ukraine, I was even with Turkey a number of times, but…" But no matter what, he had been entirely useless. "I never died, but unlike Italy I never saved anyone either…"

"Then help him now." The words were cruel in their simplicity. How did one help someone who had done and then lost so much? "Come, there's a piano in the study."

"Please don't patronize me." Austria begged, lacking the conviction to scold. "Even I know the limits of art…" And a piano of all things, he would rather cut off his hand than play the instrument in Italy's presence…

"Then remember its ability to heal..."

* * *

With Austria in the house Veneziano was finally coaxed to look at the paintings and drawings abandoned in his study. There were only a handful of them compared to the lost workshop in Venice, but one by one he coated each canvas in black paint and refused to touch them again.

* * *

By far the strangest request his brother made came after Austria, and Romano didn't actually know how to convince the nations to come. It might have been easier if he'd had Spain to ask, he had more experience with this kind of thing…

"Okay, I'll try, but…" But Veneziano wouldn't take his fingers off that part of the globe, he was determined. "Do you remember the revolution he had last year? The other three might come if I visit them first…" He could see it just in the way his brother's eyes widened: he didn't like the idea of Romano leaving Rome.

"Pick someone else for now and I'll try to work something out- Veneziano I didn't say no, I just said pick someone who can come _right now,_ not in like a month."

Veneziano tilted the world between his hands again, and circled his finger over two names printed so closely together Romano could barely read them both.

* * *

With three days left until Christmas, Switzerland hadn't expected to take a trip down to Rome.

"_Hey, Zwingli."_

But after Italy's phone call, he and Liechtenstein made the journey in only a few hours. Switzerland was angry when he realized that Italy had actually left his capital and his country behind for a trip to east Africa, but the anger died as soon as he realized why, and what his absence meant.

"Romano should be back before the Holiday, but it was still rash of him to leave." Switzerland avoided looking directly at the Vatican for the first hour of their visit, standing awkwardly in the kitchen so his sister could sit upstairs with North Italy in peace. It was hard to forget how their last meeting had ended…

"Have they been apart yet?"

"This is the first time." Which explained the anxiety in the house. Switzerland kept his hands in his pockets, watching the old Micro-nation fuss over a kettle of hot water. "Seborga hasn't left his side. I understand Romano's decision, but… last night…" Romano had left yesterday evening, he'd actually called Switzerland's house from the airport.

"Has Veneziano said anything?" Vatican paused, but he didn't turn around. He lowered his gaze a little, his wrinkled hands wrapped around a teapot.

"…He screamed."

Switzerland felt the sudden, jarring need to leave this place. He was compelled to stop disturbing this household and the fragile person sitting upstairs with his brother and Switzerland's sister. He wanted to go home now, he wanted to forget the reason why he'd wanted to come so quickly to North Italy's side. The weight of carrying it around was slowly killing him, but he could walk with the burden for a little longer if it meant…

"Switzerland? Oh, hello, Vati." Liechtenstein stepped softly into the kitchen and Switzerland hadn't heard her coming, the two men turning a little when she spoke up.

"Are you alright?" Switzerland asked, stepping up and lifting a hand to his sister's pale cheeks and puffy eyes. She'd been crying, not heavily, but more than enough to spark his concern. When she looked up at him her green eyes were glossed with more tears, but she held them back with a smile for him.

"I'm alright," she had such a soft way of speaking naturally that it was almost impossible to hear her now, Switzerland waiting patiently as Liechtenstein pulled a small handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her lips and eyes softly. How could she smile like that? "He's very tired though, Seborga mentioned he might need to lay down for a little bit…" She trailed off like it was a question, her gaze slowly moving towards the other micro-nation standing in the room. Switzerland turned and watched Vatican keep his eyes on the teapot still, peering into it vacantly like he couldn't see the steeping leaves.

It was strange to see Vatican dressed in black but without his silver cross. He didn't have his wooden rosary either…

"He sleeps much of the time," Vatican murmured. "But he's also in a great deal of pain thanks to the reconstruction." Switzerland could sympathize with that. It had been a long time since he'd felt the widespread destruction of a calamity, but like with physical wounds sometimes sleep was the most effective escape from the pain.

"Didn't you have something you wanted to give him, big brother?" Switzerland let his eyes drop to the floor for a moment, aware of the silence that followed Liechtenstein's question. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but…"

"It can wait until after he's rested."

"That may not be wise." Vatican warned, and the larger nation looked up again. The religious state spoke smoothly, but with a kind of reserved sadness in both his grave voice and dark eyes. "He's disoriented whenever he wakes up. He has to be reminded of where he is..." That he was safe…

"I guess…" This was just a bad idea all around, but the burden was starting to pain him again. With both hands shoved in his pockets Switzerland huffed and turned away. "Alright, but if he's asleep when I get up there then it will have to wait."

Switzerland's prayers went unanswered, and Italy was laying pale and exhausted on his bed when the former mercenary reached the room.

* * *

It wasn't until after Switzerland and Miss Liechtenstein left that Seborga found the gun. It was an old, worn out, scuffed and dented Swiss SIG P210 handgun; the kind that had been in popular use with the Swiss Military during WWII.

He found it in Veneziano's hands, partially disassembled, and when he was finished cleaning it Veneziano placed the weapon into the drawer next to his bed. Like the blacked-out paintings from the study, Seborga didn't see his brother touch the gun again.

* * *

"Just so we are clear…" Oh, Romano did not like that tone of voice. He didn't like it, but he relaxed his grip around the small cup of thick, hot coffee in his hand and made himself sit still at the table. The woman across from him was a great deal _older _than South Italy, and she was hiding a dangerous temper under those colourful silk scarves and the luscious black of her braided hair. "I am doing this for _you,_ not _him_."

"I understand." He said quickly, and when the dark man next to him took a breath and sat up straight, South Italy shot him a fierce look. Shut. The fuck. Up.

"Christmas Eve is an _important_ Holy Day to many of my people." Eritea continued, raising two black brows at Ethiopia, who Romano could feel staring at him because they didn't like each other, they had no reason to like each other, and here he was trying to make them work together.

"It's important to mine too." Romano agreed, speaking carefully and setting his cup on the heavy wood table so he wouldn't spill it. "But he requested you four specifically."

"I don't see Libya here." Ethiopia hissed, staring at South Italy as if he'd erected a mental wall between himself and the woman whose home they were sitting in. They really, really, did not fucking like each other.

"Libya can't come." Romano repeated.

"I have already agreed to go." Somalia spoke up softly, almost whispering since that was his way around most issues, but Romano was thankful for it since it took some of the suffocating pressure off of him. "Italy has made himself clear: we are not going to discuss trade or politics, this is a decision we must make as people."

"We are not people-"

"We represent them."

Thank you, Somalia, fucking thank you.

"Please," Romano spoke up, a bit too awkward and off-balance to feel his temper rise up to help him. He'd tried calling Spain before coming here but it hadn't worked out, the former Empire wouldn't talk to him so South Italy had to work his way through the Post-Colonial mire without help. With any other set of nations he wouldn't mind grumbling and spitting his way through a discussion, but with these ones he just, _ngh,_ it wasn't comfortable. "If it's just too short notice then at least consider coming between Christmas and the end of December. I wouldn't be pushing this hard if it wasn't important."

"It's so important that you would invite _that one_ to attend at the same time as me." Eritea emphasized, plucking at the corner of her lavender scarf like it offended her almost as much as Ethiopia's presence. "Exactly how large is your residence in Rome?"

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ Not very big?

"There is space." He answered, thinking fast and speaking slowly. "The Vatican City State lives in Rome and can easily house my brother Seborga for a few days and open up the guest room." And Papa better fucking _do it._ "And the second bedroom can be prepared before we arrive. If neither option is good e-_sufficient,_ then accommodations can be found elsewhere in the city." They shouldn't be there for more than two days, three at most…

Ethiopia opened his mouth, probably to ask Eritea how she felt about kicking her host out of his own bed, and Romano kicked him. Shut the ever-loving-fuck _up._ Romano did not need a friend to defend him right now: he needed a yes from his three former colonies.

And he needed to smack his brother for sending him on this fucking goose chase.

* * *

"Do you remember that lullaby I used to sing you when we all lived together in Austria's house?"

None of them expected Miss Hungary to be the hardest guest to deal with, not even Veneziano. Seborga had noted his brother's fingers skipping back and forth over her name on the globe, but it was the day before Christmas Eve when she finally arrived at the house. Maybe, just maybe, they should have waited for Romano to come home and handle the invitation and explanation instead, but the damage was done.

Seborga was just getting off the phone with Romano, confirming that someone would be there to pick him up from the airport tomorrow, when he heard Hungary break one of Romano's rules.

"I can't believe Germany isn't here with you…" She started… pressing him… "Is this the map you've been using, Italy?"

It was gentle, but it was still pressure. Seborga wasn't sure if he should say anything or not as he stepped back into the bedroom. Veneziano was glancing slowly between him and Miss Hungary as she hurried back over to the bed with the globe they'd been using to choose visitors. Maybe he'd just been around Veneziano long enough now to read him better, but as the sphere was placed between his hands Seborga's brother looked uncomfortable.

"There, South Italy isn't here right now so you can choose whoever you want. Can you see his name?"

"Um, Miss Hungary…" Seborga didn't know how to break in properly, the words felt clumsy as he moved towards the bed. He was about to climb up onto the mattress next to his brother again when Miss Hungary comfortably took his spot instead. It was, uh, okay… "He's made the decision every time, you know. Romano hasn't-"

"Well then why isn't Germany here?" Miss Hungary's voice wasn't mean, but she asked the question in such a way that Seborga felt like he was being shown the obvious. "I'm sure he's a very good person inside, but everyone knows how Romano feels about Germany." But Romano felt that way about a lot of nations, and yet Austria and Switzerland had been called to come as soon as they-

"Go on, choose. It's okay." Miss Hungary was such a nice, warm person to be around, but Veneziano's hands tightened around the globe when she reached up and began to turn it for him. Latin America fell away to Europe, and Seborga wondered if it was a good thing for Veneziano to let her take control like that.

She was making Seborga nervous now.

"He's right there, see? I know you can't say his name right now, Ita, but you can still point to it." Hungary circled her finger over what Seborga assumed was Germany's name on the globe. She reached for Veneziano's hand, probably to make him do the same thing, but when she touched him Veneziano pulled away quickly, raising his hand out to Seborga.

He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and then made a fist, painting a path through the air to mime for what he wanted.

"A pen?" The mime turned into a point, Veneziano indicating the small writing desk by the window. Seborga pulled the first drawer open and found a thick black marker, holding it up to see if it was okay. When Veneziano beckoned him over they both ignored Hungary's curiosity.

"Do you want to write something?" She asked, but Seborga only had an idea, not any real proof as his brother popped the cap off with his teeth, his weaker left hand holding the globe steady in his lap. "Bring him some paper, he-"

Veneziano swept a big, black mark over a point on the globe and Hungary gasped, Seborga quickly shuffling around to see what he'd done.

The marker streaked back and forth over "Germany" several times until almost the entire nation was blacked out. Then, Veneziano struck a solid line down through France and Spain, nearly hitting Portugal before stopping right at the printed line. With only a short pause, he lifted the pen again and adjusted the map, bringing the black point down over London and scoring the British Isles without touching either part of Ireland, or the regions of Scotland or Wales.

He spun the globe with one hand and carefully held the marker in place, crossing out the R-U-S-S-I-A printed across the northern hemisphere and letting it turn into a brisk X over the islands of Japan. Another squiggle cut across China all the way from Mongolia to what used to be Tibet, and with one last turn of the world he sliced off the top half of North America, just barely keeping the felt tip from chewing through Alaska. He even marked up the North Pole just to keep Norway and Greenland safe from the permanent ink.

Seborga knew better than to say anything in the silence that followed. He didn't look at Miss Hungary either, just stood awkwardly by the bed and watched Veneziano pop the cap back onto the black marker. His brother just set the pen down on the night table they both knew was holding that beaten pistol, and then he absently gave the globe a spin with one hand, his fingers keeping it from tipping as it twirled.

To Miss Hungary's credit, after a moment or two of silence to collect herself she seemed to know what to do, what to say, and how to take such a bold declaration in stride.

"Well, enough of that." Her smile was forced, but it was a smile, and Veneziano met her gaze and twitched his lips sort of like he was mimicking her. Was he being ironic? It was like he was still saying something without saying anything. "That old lullaby, do you remember it?"

Seborga took the globe away and set it back on the dresser, and Veneziano sank down into the bed and pillows, folding his arms over his stomach with the right one carefully protecting the left. The judgement and the irony both went away as he looked up at Miss Hungary and shook his head. He couldn't remember it, but that didn't mean Veneziano didn't want to hear the Hungarian tune. He let Miss Hungary stay close to him on the bed- not touching, but close, and she softly began to hum.

Relieved, the Micro-nation bowed out and calmly went downstairs to do a couple chores.

* * *

He hadn't had this dream in a long time. Years, maybe even decades had passed since he'd really thought about it.

"_It is your __**responsibility**__ as a nation-"_

"_How can you even __**say**__ that and still call yourself a democracy?"_

He never really thought about England in waist-coats and britches, or himself in swaddling cotton or little boy suspenders. Dreams of the past weren't something he usually had to endure-

"_You're too young! You don't understand that the expertise you will have in two hundred, five hundred years' time will impact everything you do!"_

Like the rest of the world was always telling him, America was too young to have dreams like these yet. They'd come with age, they'd come with centuries of power and millennia of success and failure. Not yet. His Colonial days weren't supposed to be traumatic enough for dreams like these, not yet.

"_And you're too old if you still believe that kings are kings because God put them there- England all men are equal! All men are free and I won't let you tell me otherwise!_

"_Don't ever tell me to use a power that contradicts everything that I stand for! Get out, England! GET OUT!"_

He was too young to go having dreams like these, but as America opened his eyes in the white winter light streaming through the window of his Maryland home, he felt old.

* * *

***flail* See you next week!**


	20. We Wish You A Micro Christmas

**HIMA'S BACK YES HE IS. Also: Hallelujah, The Decision of the Loved**

**I didn't think I'd be able to work the England scene into this story. Ever. At all. It completely derailed the Christmas chapter but OH MY GOD I got to write it, and I'm so happy, so I don't actually care. Long chapter is long because why the heck not?**

**WY. WY BABY I LOVE YOU.**

**Also I know she isn't like five but technically the country's only 7 years old and she's even shorter than Sealand. So hah.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

We Wish You A Micro-Christmas

"_Italy!"_

Huh?

"_Hey you guys! Wait up!"_

The fuck? Who the hell was-?

"Libya?"

"How did you…?"

Romano was too tired to deal with too many surprises right now. Now, after a very long flight from the east coasty of Africa, after four intense days of touring and begging and bartering, he didn't want any more surprises on fucking Christmas fucking Eve. The three other nations with him weren't nearly as tired or run down, but they were alert and somewhat uneasy about coming to Rome.

To have a fifth nation come sprinting up through the airport terminal and get their attention was something else entirely. Romano had been so convinced Libya would _never_ come to Rome that he hadn't even bothered visiting the North African state. Eritrea, Somalia and Ethiopia had been gambles that Romano had only won over by promising to consider several business proposals _later_, but Libya had so many problems to deal with right now that-

"I'm not too late?" He still had bruises on his face from the fighting, in fact Romano was pretty sure he saw the olive-skinned nation limping along with panting and awkwardly dragging a small piece of luggage behind him. "You're still here, thank goodness, I didn't know where-"

"Hey, breathe."

"You called and I- your message just-"

"I said _breathe_, damn it." Romano scolded, and then he looked at the other three nations standing behind him, watching. _They_ knew why he'd asked them to come to Rome, but after leaving a brief message for the fourth state Romano hadn't gone into very much detail…

"I know I called, but don't you have more important things to do than come all the way up here?" Why the hell was Romano asking that? Because it was fucking _true, _but that didn't stop the slightly taller nation from straightening up and setting his shoulders, showing the strength still standing beneath the trauma of civil war.

"Your empire was stupid." Libya pronounced, and Romano felt himself bristle sharply, memories of the first half of the 20th century coming to him with all their glory and, er, not-glory. "But you can't call everyone back together and leave me out of it! No way!"

Ugh…

Fine…

"C'mon, then. I'll explain everything on the drive." They were going to need a bigger car, damn it…

* * *

"Hey, you made it!"

"Yes, well… I suppose I should have called ahead."

"Bah! Come in! Hurry- this way!"

England tugged his jacket straight as he stepped into the house, silently giving thanks for the air-conditioning in the sunny household that kept Australia's residence from physically melting. The house was more like a villa, a split-level monster of a rancher sitting on a wide tract of land just outside Canberra. Everything about it was glass and white stucco, and England felt foolish for wearing such heavy clothes on the plane ride down. He also felt foolish for coming, but -

"Hey, everyone!" He just diligently followed behind Australia and told himself this would be worth it. "Look who's here!"

Oh dear, lots of former Colonies… England couldn't help but jump a little when he came into the dining room and saw at least a dozen commonwealth faces looking up at him from a very long, and also very cramped dinner table. Hot summer sunlight was pouring over crystal glasses and paper plates, everything from curried lamb to a stuffed turkey sitting on the table, garden salads and boiled brussel sprouts providing bursts of green beside artificial sprigs of holly. Australia's massive television was on in the large den and visible, but on mute with some sort of Christmas program on. Cheery Christmas music was turned down low and humming in the background.

A global feast was spread out with nations sitting elbow to elbow with each other. They weren't all Christian nations by any stretch, but England was surprised to see Canada glance up from a conversation with India, New Zealand sitting with Belize at his right. With many more faces with many more backgrounds, all familiar to him in one way or another, England wasn't sure why he felt like he was intruding, but the feeling stuck.

They didn't do this every year; that would be too tedious. But every few years when it seemed right, someone in the family would call the rest of them up and decide to host a holiday. It wasn't always Christmas, and for various political reasons it was rarely at England's house, but maybe Australia would invest in a larger dining set before his turn came around again… Was Tonga sitting on a lawn chair?

"S… Sorry I'm late…" Christmas was usually something England preferred to spend alone at home, not down in the Southern Hemi-

"Sit! Sit! I'll get another plate!" There was a lot of shuffling and a bit of laughter as the overburdened table was forced to accept another patron, England uneasily sinking into the plastic chair Australia fetched for him from outside. He was on a corner, but to be honest when one is a good six hours late one doesn't complain about things like that. Samoa was just heaping a spoonful of turkey biryani from India's home onto England's paper plate when he felt a tug on his arm.

"Where's my gift?" Oh-?

"I'm sorry?" A tiny child. Her thick brown hair was done up in one pig tail over her ear, a festive holly sprig (with the sharp points clipped off!) stuck in the tie. Her pink jumper make England sweat in sympathy, but with those unforgivably bushy eyebrows framing such a perfect little scowl, England felt a very unwanted rush of affection hit him at the sight of her. Wy. That was her name, this was the Principality of Wy.

"Where. Is. My. Gift?" Wy stated in short, simple order, tugging on England's sleeve with each word.

"Do you mean a Christmas gift?" He asked, and the scowling child gave a firm nod.

"I got my gift from all my uncles, now I want one from Grandpa."

G-

_Grandpa…?_

"Hey, Little Princess." India spoke up smoothly, playing with his tone so the words sounded like music. He was pouring a glass of chilled cranberry juice for England, the ice sloshing in the red drink before it was set down. "Don't you think you should ask Australia before you hand out new titles?"

"Nope." Such a precious, demanding little creature. She didn't even hesitate with her answer and she was still tugging incessantly on England's arm. India's smile turned into a grin and he laughed something across the table at Sri Lanka, the two of them sharing an in-joke over the mingled din of conversation. England wasn't sure where his plate had gone, but with two more tugs on his sleeve the former British Empire gave in to temptation.

"Well now, my dear…" Getting both hands under Wy's arms, the little girl seized up as she was lifted into the air and placed on his lap, her back perfectly straight as she perched herself on his knee. She didn't fight or squirm to get away from him, and she focused those sharp brown eyes of hers on him without blinking. "What do you _want_ for Christmas this year?"

"A gift." So bossy…

'_Too precious-!' _But he couldn't say something like that… Grandpa. Really? He was certainly old enough but did he really _look _like a grandfather?

England stroked his chin thoughtfully as he pondered the issue of a gift, not really having to think too terribly hard. There were splotches of blue and yellow paint on the back of the girl's fingers, a bandage hiding under her bangs, and several bruises on her knees. Some sort of sports equipment or art supplies would be best, no doubt… _Or…_

"Well, if there's nothing _specific_ you want then I could always borrow Austalia's kitchen and-"

"Nevermind, I know what I want." Wy interrupted, and England looked up to find India giving him a _ghastly_ look over the top of the child's head. Oh hush up, England was a fine cook and they all knew it!

But as for the matter at hand, Wy tugged his attention back down until he was looking into her firm brown eyes again.

"I want peace of mind." Er…

"I'm sorry, what?" Peace of mind? On the one hand he was finding it very hard not to just wrap his arms around the little micro-nation and squeeze her for saying something so grown up, but on the other- "My dear, you can't be more than ten- actually I _know_ you're less than that." She'd only been born back in 2004, an unexpected little creation in Astralia's eastern territories. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a bike? Or maybe a new easel?" It was so rare for a Nation to be born outside of bloody conflict, what could possibly be squandering that innocence?

Wy gave him an unexpectedly stern look, but England was surprised when it melted into something unreadable. Despite where and how she'd been born, Wy wasn't nearly as expressive as England's former penal colony: she was much more like him, and was clearly thinking very hard before she spoke again, reaching out and touching his chest softly where she was still perched on his knee.

"Can I sit closer?" They were still at the dinner table but England obviously wasn't getting any food yet. He had a habit of starting off well with children before things went sour, but it had been so long since he'd been around one that her request- "Please, grandpa?"

Australia came bursting in announcing something about barbequed prawns and England just wrapped his arms around the little girl in his lap, letting Wy snuggle close and rest her head on his shoulder, making herself unexpectedly small in the process.

"What's wrong, darling?" Settling a hand down on Wy's head and speaking softly, maybe the noise at the table was too much for her? "This isn't like you… it's Christmas Eve, you know."

"I know…" This was more than a child sulking over a gift, but when England tried to brace his legs under himself to stand up and lift her, Wy fidgeted and he stayed in his place at the table. "I just want… to know…"

"Know what, dear?"

Wy had her cheek pressed against his chest, her ear over England's heart and her hand loosely hanging onto his red Christmas shirt. When New Zealand mimed a question over the clatter of cutlery and cups, England gestured back with a wave and a dismissive shrug, lying to say she was just tired and pouting. He waited until the little nation in his lap looked up again before he went back to holding her close like before. She was worrying one pink lip between her teeth, but she had that strong, bold look in her brown eyes that actually _did_ come from Australia.

"If I don't tell you a secret and you have to find out later, much later, will you be mad at me?" Hmm? What a strange question for a child to ask him. And what could a nation the size of Wy even have to keep from him? "Will you be mad and never speak to me again, because I didn't tell you?" That...

"Wy…" She was taking it seriously, so despite what urge there was to laugh and brush her off, England took it seriously too. To be fair, he didn't like secret-keeping anymore but it was a fact of life, wasn't it? "I guess it depends, will keeping the secret hurt anyone?"

"No..."

"Will something illegal happen if I don't know?"

"I don't think so…" Hmph.

"Well then, my dear," hoisting the little girl up again despite a small protest, England knew it would annoy her, but he pulled her close and gave her a kiss on the cheek. True to form Wy tried to push him away but the island nation just grinned and trapped her in a bear-hug instead. She huffed and grunted a bit before settling down, comfortably wrapping her thin arms around his neck. Canada was giving him a sickeningly sweet smile from down the table and he heard Australia give a loud _"awww!",_ but they could both just sod off.

"If you have a good reason then I don't mind, my darling." He soothed, wondering how sincere he was actually being even as he spoke. "So long as no one gets hurt and no laws are broken, then it's live and let live, you know?"

"So you won't get mad?"

"I might…" One had to be realistic when dealing with children, but England rubbed one hand up and down over Wy's back, and she squeezed him a little tighter. "But then I would forgive you."

"So you won't hate me?"

"Of course not." She was a 700-meter lot in an Australian suburb, what could Wy possibly do to make him that mad?

"Promise?"

"On my honour." She was being oddly quiet now, and England was beginning to wonder when the hug would end: neither one of them was very good with prolonged contact. "Wy?"

"Then I want a bike." Er, what? She wouldn't let go of him, and when England tried to turn his head a little he almost thought he heard a sniffle. Tears on Christmas Eve? "I want a blue bike with ribbons on the handles, something girly that Sealand won't try to steal." That _boy_. He was spending Christmas with Sweden and Finland this year, and England obliged the young Micro-nation by holding her a bit closer. He shook his head a little when India finally dropped an overflowing paper-plate of Christmas meats and pudding in front of him.

"Then grandpa will get you a bike." He said quietly, murmuring the words close to Wy's head so she could hear them through the laughter and cheer around them. "But first you have to dry those tears, love. It's Christmas."

Christmas with family…

* * *

Christmas with friends was a joy France had forgotten. In reality, maybe, it had only been another three-hundred and sixty-some days since the last Christmas Eve and the last night with exquisite food and friends, but it felt like much longer than that.

It felt like so long that France had invited anyone he could think of, a decision which had somehow backfired and left him with only three guests. It made sense of course: Germany had no intention of celebrating anything and Prussia wouldn't leave his side, and while China and Japan were working on some kind of cultural exchange and spending the holiday with one another. England and Canada had both expressed a greater preference to spend Christmas with the Commonwealth, America was simply not to be bothered with, and most of France's former colonies and the members of La Francophonie couldn't be reached on such short notice.

So he had Mademoiselle Monaco to entertain, along with Spain and, of all people, Portugal. At first the second Iberian had been a complete mystery to him, but France was happy to cook for whomever he could cook for. However, by the time they were finished with dinner France figured out why Portugal had come along: he didn't quite trust Spain to remain civil.

"He got into some kind of fight with Italy a few weeks ago and he's been like this ever since." _This _being sulky and absolutely horrible. Portugal confided in France only as the two of them were busy carrying dishes into the kitchen: France would wash them tomorrow, and he certainly wouldn't make his guests do the job in the meantime.

They were staying in a small chateau near Mademoiselle Monaco's home. France was quite fond of spending Christmas with the snow in the north, but hospitality meant selecting an appropriate location for his guests to feel most comfortable: and that meant south along the Mediterranean coast. Dim lights, assorted candles, perfect wine, candies and sweets, and gentle music all contributed to the warm, comfortable atmosphere in the private residence. For some strange reason when France and Portugal returned to the den, the quiet conversation between Monaco and Spain suddenly stopped.

Hmph. That would not do. Spain had been unnaturally quiet all evening!

"Oh my, should we leave and come in again?" France joked, grinning in the warm glow of the candles before realizing how nervous Monaco suddenly was. She pulled out her phone and immediately began swiping her thumb over the display, cycling through apps and other things to appear distracted. "_Ma_ _cherie?_" Why was she doing that?

"Um, I'm just checking something." Monaco murmured, nudging her glasses up her slender nose before putting the device away. The Micro-nation in red was seated at the card table, an open deck of cards already out and no doubt shuffled from before. They'd hoped to play a few rounds of something fun before going to bed. For some reason, her light seemed dimmer than it had been during the meal. "Ah… Seborga says Merry Christmas."

Ah yes, big brother understood now.

"I'm sorry he couldn't come," France crooned, letting himself down lightly into the chair across the table from Monaco. "But you know I did invite him."

"Of course you did," the beautiful woman in red replied, looking at France as if he'd said something shameful. Monaco really didn't know the power of her own beauty sometimes, but before France could point it out to her, Spain spoke up instead.

"He's busy." Erm, did he not sound a bit testy as he said that? "Can't be helped." Oh my, such a dreary attitude for such a happy night.

"Must you be so miserable?" But Portugal was his friend's brother, so it was far more appropriate for him to make an effort to correct dear _España's _moodiness. For the nation of passion France hadn't seen his friend smile more than a handful of times since he'd arrived from Madrid.

"It's not that simple…" Oh? Mademoiselle wanted to defend this dower behaviour? France found this suspicious, no less so when Monaco tried to cover it by picking up the deck and reshuffling the cards. Sensing an opportunity to banish the heavy cloud that had settled over his prized holiday, France smiled across the table and then gestured for Portugal to take the seat next to him.

"How about a wager? If my friend Portugal and I can beat the two of you at a hand of cards, you will enlighten us?" He didn't feel the need to spell out the conditions, just like how Spain didn't look confused or ask him to clarify what he meant. Between Seborga's absence and a lover's quarrel with Italy, something was clearly bothering both of them.

"Which game?" But Monaco was easy to distract from such things, and her smile was a welcome reward for such tactics.

"Whichever Mademoiselle prefers, as long as _España_ can keep up."

"I like those odds," she murmured, shuffling with a good deal more skill and vigor as Spain finally lifted himself off the couch and came over to join them. "And if we win?" Yes, a team card-game would be fun, not that France could think of any off the top of his head, but no doubt Monaco knew several.

"It is Christmas, no?" France grinned and checked the other two faces at the table. "You decide." Spain seemed only half-convinced of the idea, but Portugal started going pale as cards began to whisper across the table and form a neat pile in front of him.

It would be a good night.

* * *

"Sealand." Sweden was in no rush tonight. Christmas was always a busy time of year, but the busiest of all was always Christmas Eve for Finland. Santa's sleigh had taken off about half an hour ago, and now all Sweden himself wanted to do was make sure the boys were okay before going to bed. Finland would come home after he finished the Christmas run, and he had all the permissions and codes he needed to be safe across all national and international flight zones.

This left Sweden to make sure the boys went to bed on time, which was easy to do because on Christmas Eve no child deserved a bed-time. He'd done it this way for years and Finland had never found out, so shhh…

But boys could be hungry, and Sealand and Ladonia were in their room doing something with the computer. Hanatamago had gone out for half her walk, because it was cold and she was such a small dog it didn't seem right to make her go around the whole block. Half a walk was good enough (shhh, no telling Fin). Sweden had a tin of Christmas cookies for the boys to eat, because boys liked cookies more than the black liquorish Sweden had calmly buried under a patch of snow in the back yard (_shhh_…). He'd done it this way for years, and his wife had either never found out or it just wasn't important enough to argue about.

But _shhh_ none-the-less.

"Ladonia." Cracking open the bedroom door, Ladonia always complained about having to share his room whenever Sealand came to stay with them, but the one time Sweden had made up the spare bedroom instead both boys had still slept side by side. So there was no point in doing that again, and Sweden wasn't surprised when he looked into the room and found both Micro-nations absorbed with Ladonia's laptop.

Kids these days. When Sweden had been small they'd walked on thin ice to see who would fall in first (Sweden hadn't liked that game…), or went hunting for bear pelts (a very scary game), or thrown rocks at wolves (a really, really, really, really stupid game).

Nevermind. Laptops were better.

"_It's not __**fair…**_" Hmm?

"_Why haven't they told Sweden or Finland yet?" _Huh?

"_Maybe he called Norway."_

"_Can you ask who's next?"_

"_I'll try next time I see him."_

"_Or Iceland maybe._"

"Boys?" All this whispering, who hadn't told what yet? What did Norway know?

"AH!" Oh, Sealand did scream a lot like England sometimes, really girly and-

"DAD!" Yes? Why had they both jumped up like that?

"WE WEREN'T DOING ANYTHING, PLEASE DON'T GET MAD!" He wasn't mad.

"_I'm sorry we'll go to bed right now just like Mama-Finland said!_" But it was Christmas Eve…

"Look! Look! Sleeping!" Sealand didn't need to hide under the covers like that… um…

Closing the door again quietly, maybe he'd just leave the cookies out here, and go call Norway.

Yes.

He'd go wish Norway a Merry Christmas, and ask if Iceland was being weird about his laptop.

* * *

"Alright, c'mon you guys!" Prussia barked, hoisting up a box of decorations from West's garage. Why was everyone just standing around! "I didn't invite you guys here to just gossip like little girls, get a move on! This place has to be perfect before West gets home!"

It was cold outside, fresh snow on the ground and still lightly falling over the city of Berlin. Prussia knew his brother was still at work, Christmas Eve be damned, but he was going to make this house fucking Christmas-y if it killed him! West didn't want to celebrate Christmas this year? _Tough shit_. Prussia couldn't handle this anymore, he was going to make his brother smile at least _once_ before the new year started.

"I assure you, my desserts have been perfectly prepared." Austria scoffed, sniffing his lavender hanky while Prussia popped open the cardboard flaps on the box and grabbed the sparkling silver garland meant to go around their living room. The Aristocrat had been busy baking, not that Prussia could verify that beyond the intoxicating smells wafting from the pristine kitchen and the bit of raspberry preserve on Kugelmugel's cheek. The boy-nation was busy setting up a Christmas village over West's fireplace mantel, but seemed distracted by the painted ceramic horse.

"But is all of this truly necessary?" Austria was so annoying sometimes…

"I don't even know why I agreed to come…" Switzerland grumbled, handing over another delicate little woodcraft decoration for his sister to hang on the tree. If Prussia hadn't known any better, he thought he saw Liechtenstein give a sniff before hiding behind the evergreen boughs looking for a place to hang the little robin.

"What the hell's wrong with you guys?" Prussia actually stopped when he noticed that Hungary wasn't looking at him, as in she was making a _point_ of not looking at him. She'd been acting funny since she'd arrived too; rushing up to give him a lingering hug, kissing his cheek so carefully and not letting him ask why she was being so girlish. The red and green knit sweater Hungary was wearing didn't seem as cheerful as it should have been on her, like the festive colours didn't appeal to her. She kept plucking at it with her fingers, adjusting and re-adjusting a set of white candles on West's heavy dining room table.

It was suddenly very quiet in the house, something that Prussia couldn't stand after the last four months. He was okay with quiet in general, but not when there were people around. There was no reason for six nations to be completely silent when standing in the same room together, nobody was dead, no one was in trouble, and it was Christmas Eve for god's sake! What was wrong with everyone?

"Um… Is Mr. Germany running late tonight, Mr. Prussia?" Liechtenstein was really cute, but why wouldn't she come out from behind the tree? "Maybe he got a call from someone..?" The way Kugelmugel glanced at the other Micro-nation and made her trail off was disturbing. Austria's pet state wasn't the kind to get involved with things beyond the end of his paintbrush. The fact that he'd been dragged to Christmas Eve was weird enough, but to have him sending messages with just a look? The fuck was going on?

"What are you hiding?" God he wanted to think that maybe it was some kind of amazing and awesome gift. That was what Prussia wanted to believe.

"I'll go check on the torte. Kugelmugel, come."

"Big Brother I think this one's broken."

"Hey!" What was going on? Why were they being like this? Family and Hungary weren't supposed to be like this. West couldn't come home to people keeping secrets from him; Prussia'd rather pack up all the decorations and food than let that happen. Better no Christmas than a bad Christmas this year…

West couldn't handle a bad Christmas. West could barely handle a bad day at the office, so he couldn't come home to fake cheer and fake smiles and fake friends. Prussia wouldn't let another bad thing touch his little brother.

"You were all talking about something before I came back, now what was it!"

Hungary started rubbing her eyes and wouldn't look at him.

Switzerland didn't even bark at him for raising his voice.

Austria took both Micro-nations into the kitchen to hide.

What the hell was going _on…?_

* * *

San Marino would not be arriving until Christmas Day, and although Veneziano still wouldn't leave the house Papa went to celebrate Midnight Mass at Saint Peter's like he did every Christmas Eve. This left Veneziano and Seborga alone in the house until Romano finally, finally came home just after mid-night.

They'd made a few festive foods in the hours they were alone together, but in all it wasn't much of a Christmas until they heard the car pull up. No decorations on the walls, no extra lights or wrapping paper.

It was almost like any other night except for the hot coco Seborga cooked up for them, and the way Veneziano sat at the back door watching the silhouettes of their neighbours celebrate and laugh. He was better about watching people from behind the glass now, he could even, sometimes, stand just on the other side of the threshold. The main street still frightened him with its noise and activity, but the inner courtyard was alright for him.

Then they heard the car, and the voices, and for a few minutes Veneziano looked so torn up and afraid that Seborga almost told him to go upstairs, but he resisted. Veneziano had to get used to it, he had to be okay with people coming and going from the house.

"Think of it like Santa bringing gifts!" Seborga tried, grasping at straws to make things any easier. "Only instead of Finland or a jolly fat man, it's Romano." Err, that had sounded better in his head.

But ultimately, despite everything that could have gone wrong, Veneziano didn't panic when the door opened. He stood in the far corner of the living room, the place he'd decided granted him the widest view of the first floor, and he didn't move as the five nations came trudging and talking into their house, but he remained calm. Or calm enough at least.

Seborga still found it strange that Veneziano had requested the former Italian colonies, but he found it even weirder that they'd agreed to come. Romano looked utterly exhausted and weakly complained about the lack of decorations, saying it wasn't fucking Christmas without the house all done up, but beyond that he didn't seem to care about the holiday as he collapsed onto their couch without offering their guests a seat.

Not surprisingly, he was Veneziano's first priority. It wasn't until North Italy was completely satisfied with the clarity of South Italy's eyes and his temperature and the flush in his cheeks that the other nations registered for him. Before that they had simply been strange things and threats standing in their house.

There wasn't much talking after that, but Seborga did notice how the history didn't seem to get in the way of the other nations' reactions to Veneziano. The world wars and colonial conquests seemed to fade away, not completely, but just enough to let simple humanity reach out in the form of very quiet gestures and silent requests to touch or move about.

Veneziano stayed next to Romano the entire time, but he let his attention land squarely on each nation, treating them the same way he had all of the guests before them. He responded to questions and statements with gestures only, nodding or smiling when appropriate, and he showed off all the hundreds of ways someone could use their lips to speak without ever uttering a sound.

Somalia was the first one to ask the question that had been haunting them all for weeks:

"Please, why won't you speak?" Somalia had such dark skin, it was like God had buffed and polished him to the truest black he could find. He was a strong man, tall and with a proud back and shoulders. He also had a soft voice though, misleadingly quiet sometimes, and he was trying to find an even softer tone now. "Don't you have a single word you can use?"

Veneziano had heard this question before, and Seborga had never seen him give the same reaction twice. Sometimes he would stare blankly at the questioner before closing his eyes and pretending to sleep. Or maybe he would avert his eyes sadly, like he was ashamed, or just keep his face exactly the same and quirk his brows like he was waiting for the person to speak after a long silence. This time, of all things, Veneziano actually took a breath, held it with his lips parted, and then slowly, nervously, let his eyes slide away from Somalia and rest on Libya instead.

He made a gesture with his right hand, letting it rise and fall to indicate all the bruises and half-healed injuries on the other nation. Veneziano had already let Eritrea touch the white marks left on his face and express remorse over them, but now he was doing something Seborga hadn't seen before. He wasn't just changing the subject or asking something with his eyes, Veneziano was doing something _political_, and even Romano picked his head up to pay attention.

The question was complex: what was going on in Libya, and how was the revolution progressing?

"Um- well, it…" Veneziano hadn't wondered one bit about reconstruction efforts in his own territories, or made a move towards any newspaper or government form from Romano's office since he'd returned. This was the closest he'd come to engaging with the world outside the house in weeks, and when Libya stumbled and was slow on the up-take, Veneziano looked back at Eritea and Ethiopia where the two were standing as far as they could from one another without leaving the room.

It took several gestures this time, but they were carefully thought through and executed slowly with his right hand- although the left helped with its slower, jerking movements. Guns and landscapes and hitting: he was asking about their border disputes, and by extension he wanted to know how their relations were progressing.

No one could have expected this, Seborga was sure. Of all the people he'd asked and the few friends he'd told before it got this far, this change had never occurred to anyone. Veneziano was so broken, so fragile, so easily disturbed and terrified and exhausting just to look at, that this reaction to that question had never crossed Seborga's mind.

He'd never, not once, considered that his brother would remember himself as a nation before he tried living again as a human.

* * *

**I've been bombarded with little plot-bunnies outside HetaOni all this week, so I have an important question for anyone who doesn't mind a couple spoilers for the end of Recovery. I'm stuck on a fence regarding content in chapters 23-25, and they determine the emotional tone of the closing chapters. Anybody up for lending the author a hand? It's just the one plotline, I'm not spilling everything, but I need heeeelp.**

**Either way, thanks for reading, guys!**


	21. Birds of Prey

**End of the Dream, Oceans, Inevitable Discovery, Starvation, Shattered, Epica (Audiomachine).**

**Totally didn't think about this at the time, but since I made HetaOni happen in August of 2012 then all of this happened immediately after the London Olympics. Funky time-warp action go~! **

**Happy British Columbia Day, guys.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Birds of Prey

"Mr. Jones."

"Mr. President."

America was already beginning to miss Italy. It felt like a betrayal to say as much, or to think it, but standing in the Oval Office had begun to feel as taxing as sitting down across the bargaining table from his brother, or dodging phone-calls from nations in Europe. New Year's had been a blast, he couldn't deny it: there was just something about watching the big ball drop in New York that made you feel like a new beginning was on the horizon.

And in a way that new beginning was here.

"Have a seat, Mr. Jones."

Because with his old boss out of office, the new one was settling in quickly…

"Are you familiar with the constitution of the United States, Mr. Jones?" America's new boss was like a lot of his previous ones when it came down to looks and presentation. He was an older gentleman, a former senator, a big businessman with a prestigious degree. Heavy set around the waist and beginning to lose some of his hair, he had the big sausage-hands of a man whose family somewhere along the line had worked the lands and seized every opportunity to get ahead. He had no military experience of note, but his knowledge of economics was par none and he had that capacity for speech that had seen his former boss graciously admit defeat.

"Of course, Sir." America could have added more to his answer. For instance, he could have added the fact that he'd been there for the signing of the Constitution, just like how he'd watched and helped word the Declaration that had put him at war with Great Britain. In this situation, he knew better.

"Son, can you explain to me how the balance of power works here in Washington?" In this situation America had to scramble for all the few, scattered patience he still possessed, and give in to that willing sense of obedience he'd agreed to just over three hundred years ago. "I mean the various branches of the government and all of that. Just a jist of course, we don't have all day and you seem like a competent young man."

Because his new boss was a deeply religious man. America had nothing against a good, strong, strict religious upbringing; but good, strong, strict religious people didn't tend to like immortals.

This was not their first meeting, but the first two had been short and mediated by his former boss. This was their first technical meeting as President and State, but as America diligently listed off and described the various parts and pieces of his government structure, he could tell that today would not end well.

"That's enough Mister Jones." The President sighed, his mid-western accent comfortably stressing the name, but he was rocking back in forth in the heavy desk chair like he was sitting at home instead of in the Oval Office. America didn't find the act itself disrespectful, but despite his best efforts he bristled at what came next. "As I said, young sir you seem like a competent fellow, so given what you've just told me I have another question: what makes you think you're of vital importance in this office?"

Here it came…

"Sir, I don't think you really understand…" America tried to smile, emphasise on _'tried_'. He didn't need this kind of tedium right now. "It's not a matter of opinion."

"Now, you know I find that hard to believe." The President shifted in his seat and leaned forward, pulling the edge of his jacket around behind him, resting one arm on his knee and just sitting like that awkwardly, trying to look friendly. "I know the former President liked you quite a bit, but I don't have to repeat my campaign slogan for you: the White House is a place of business, not skateboards and vain tricks."

"Of course sir, you made that very clear." Especially since he'd just repeated his campaign slogan, but America didn't say that, he couldn't; this was his new boss. "We need a strong leader here in Washington, and I have faith in you." I. He threw in the I because it was hard to play along, he was under too much stress, emotionally and economically, to play games. His boss cleared his throat and the United States of America tilted his chin up to show his defiance.

His new boss… had not beaten his old boss by very much. His new boss had won by one percentage point above the margin of error. America had chosen his new boss over his old boss, but it had been a very near thing.

"Now that's the kind of attitude I have a problem with, Mr. Jones." America. His name was America. Patriots could use that other name and _yes_ the President counted as a patriot, but not if he was going to use that name so carelessly. "I've gone through this office and I've alerted all the staff, but no one can find your journeyman's paperwork or your internship forms, there's no obvious reason why a boy just shy of twenty is invited to loiter around the White House- and behind locked doors! Do you know how many men your age have been inside this room?

"Quite a few, sir, it's part of the tour." America almost bit his tongue for the comment, and his President gave him a scolding look. Fine, that had been inappropriate but to be honest so were the questions.

"Mr. Jones, what I'm trying to say is that the frivolities of the previous administration are over." America's presence in the White House was not a frivolity… "And as the head of this administration, and a new direction for America, it falls to me to dismiss you from this office."

But unless he was willing to dig down deep for that hot, corruptive power, that special skill all nations possessed that robbed good men of all sense and free will… Unless America was willing to break a vow made over three hundred years ago…

"I understand, sir." Then he would have to sit this administration out, the way he had so many times before.

* * *

New Year's came, New Year's went, and it was hard but Veneziano finally took his first steps outside on the day Romano left for Hong Kong.

He walked all the way to the edge of the sidewalk with Vatican holding his hand, and he let Romano kiss him on both cheeks as he promised to take the first plane home as soon as the conference was over. No one expected North Italy to leave Rome for at least a few more weeks, not even their boss, but South Italy was entirely different. _Someone_ had to represent the Republic internationally, and there were just some meetings a human couldn't substitute for.

So he flew into Hong Kong for an international summit on Energy and Information, which was a fucking useless thing to drag him away from home for, and when he landed Romano was surprised when Hong Kong was there to greet him personally. He was surprised because it was two in the god-damned morning, and Romano had a hellish time sleeping on flights and didn't know what time his internal clock thought it was. Nations didn't handle jet-lag very well, and there was a six hour difference between Rome and Hong Kong…

"Did you have a pleasant flight?" It wasn't like China's little brother to be so talkative… "The food was acceptable?"

"For plane food." Hong Kong was shorter than Romano which had to say something, but he offered to take South Italy's luggage for him, and he walked with him out into the cool evening air. For some strange reason instead of stuffing him in a taxi or a limo or a shuttle to take him to the delegate hotel, Hong Kong directed him to the parkade and the two of them climbed into a personal vehicle instead.

What the fuck was going on?

"Eh, I'm staying at the hotel, right?" Climbing awkwardly into the car after Hong Kong first held open his door, then closed it for him, he watched the pseudo-state get into the driver's seat and fiddle around with the controls before asking the question. Hong Kong immediately froze and gave him a surprised look.

"If you would prefer a hotel, then of course one can be arranged."

"Okay, stop it." This was weird. "What the hell's going on? You're being creepy."

"You're very straight-forward."

"I am, now cut the crap."

China liked to put on a creepy smile whenever someone called him on his bullshit, but for some reason Hong Kong was a lot like Japan when it came to just not doing anything with his face. Obviously he was thinking hard about something, but before Romano could freak out and start fighting with his door to escape the cramped conversation, the city-state spoke up:

"If it is necessary for you to return to Rome and look after your brother, an appropriate story can be thought up to excuse you." Huh? W- Wait a second _what the fuck- _why was China's little brother saying shit like that!

"San Marino… is fine." Was the best Romano could come up with, too exhausted after his flight to lunge with both hands around Hong Kong's throat and demand an answer. He was staring and he knew it, but so was Hong Kong and when the city looked back at the wheel in front of him, he made a soft 'hm' sound.

"If you prefer that code name, I will make a note of it." Code name.

"Code name for what?" Or for who?

"We haven't told anyone, or at least I haven't." They hadn't told anyone what? What they? "Seborga was very clear about it being a secret, so-" Seborga?

Micro-nations.

OH-

* * *

"_YOU ASS-FACED LITTLE SHIT." _Oh dear… "_WHEN I GET HOME YOU'D BETTER FUCKING RUN. DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?"_ Actually he hadn't, so Romano really was over-reacting.

Romano kept shrieking through the phone and Seborga very quietly placed it down on the table, silently weighing his options before he just grabbed his jacket and swung it on, turning away and leaving the kitchen and the hissing device behind.

For them Romano had left yesterday, and apparently Seborga would have to give Hong Kong a talking-to later. Now it was morning again in Rome, and as he swept his house-keys off the coffee table in the living room the Micro-nation made himself smile for his brother who was standing anxiously by the door. Romano would forgive him, he'd told his friends about Veneziano's return hours before Romano had come up with his _'no telling anyone!'_ rule. The Micro-nations knew not to blab, Hong Kong had just made an error in judgement.

Hopefully.

But back to the matter at hand: their outing. For weeks now, Veneziano had been getting better about the world outside the house. He'd only ventured out to the street once to say good bye to Romano yesterday, but the closed courtyard in the back had been his training ground for over a month. The greatest hurtle was always stepping over the threshold, and after that everything else was just a matter of getting him to take baby steps. Just standing outside could be difficult for him with the different noises and the cold air, but he was learning to cope and adjust to it. He could spend a few minutes walking around now, or just sit outside by the dormant flower pots if there was someone to keep him company. His stamina was slowly coming back, but the pain of reconstruction kept hindering his progress.

Tearing down compromised buildings, gutting ruined commercial centres, liquidating bankrupt companies; all of these things were painful for nations, especially ones that focused so much on trade and industry like Veneziano did. There were still nights he woke up in excruciating pain, and Seborga kept his eye on the news whenever he noticed his brother not eating or beginning to shake and tremble from worker's strikes and protests. He was too fragile to be left alone. Seborga missed his village but he would rather be here than worrying at home.

"Ready?"

Veneziano was bundled up too much for the chilly weather outside, but it was better than having him go out and feel cold. He liked to be warm, so under the long, olive-green coat that came down to his knees, Veneziano was wearing a sweater over a white shirt. They'd pulled a pair of black dress pants from his closet and ironed them, leather gloves and a green scarf pulled on to keep him safe from the brisk wind waiting outside.

His wardrobe had been a point of interest throughout most of January. Veneziano had purged almost every item that was red or the same dark royal blue from his old uniform. His black shirts were gone too and he'd gotten rid of most of his ties. He was lucky that Seborga was almost his size in everything except in-seam, but they weren't going shopping for new clothes today. They were going to try something a bit different.

Just like when he took a walk in the courtyard, crossing the threshold onto the street took him a long, long time to prepare for. He let Seborga go first and then just stood there in the doorway, looking around. He wasn't worried about the step itself; his eyes just swallowed all the details running up and down the road. The numbers on the buildings across the street, the honking horns in the distance, the trill of a bike bell speeding by. There were a few trees planted in the sidewalk down this part of town, and a crow's rough caw brought his attention up to search for it.

It was a lot to take in.

Finally, with his scarf tugged up to protect his lips and nose from the nippy cold, Veneziano took a deep breath stepped out into the city of Rome.

* * *

Italy was one of the last delegates to arrive in Hong Kong, and to be frank England preferred to ponder on that instead of wondering why America was so unfashionably late. He didn't ponder it very hard though, because he was a bit too nervous to join the crowd of nations that practically mobbed Italy as soon as he and Hong Kong stepped into the meeting room.

Austria appeared out of nowhere, Norway shook his hand, and Switzerland was left folding his arms with a scowl as he was made to wait before sharing a short word and a nod with the other state. Romania started gabbing about something and England just sipped his lemon-sweetened tea before glancing at the nation sitting next to him, and then nodded in the Italian's direction.

"So, have you spoken to him recently?" For himself, England hadn't spoken to Italy since he'd pulled most of his personnel out of the crisis zones. Maybe an e-mail here and there to check something, or having one of his bureaucrats talk to an Italian bureaucrat, but otherwise there had been little more than whispers between London and Rome since the end of November. It was nearly February.

"Absolutely not," France chirped, but it was with that false kind of cheer he called up whenever he didn't want to dwell on something. "We did speak briefly just before Christmas, but it was only to say that he was spending the Holiday in Africa." Now, England found that curious.

"But the Vatican's in Rome, surely…?" He let his words trail off, because there was no sense getting into that sort of painful discussion. Italy's spiritual health wasn't something England could poke at without causing an unpleasant stir. It wasn't his place to go asking questions about what was "best" for someone when England had fled to the most crowded and noisy place he could think of for the Holidays. He was positive he still had sand in his hair from laying on those Australian beaches…

France gave a tense shrug, and then of all things pretended to browse through the papers in front of him like they were somehow more important. England didn't push the subject; he just sipped his tea again and noted the empty seat across the table from him, then the one to his right.

It wasn't like America to be this late. Canada kept checking his watch next to the empty chair and looking at the door as the nations around Italy slowly dispersed to find their places, but it wasn't doing him any good as everyone settled down.

"He's coming, yes?" France mused, surprising the Englishman with his mild tone, eyes still downcast and skimming the graphs and charts for the meeting. "Perhaps you should ask Canada before we begin?"

"Ask him what?" England repeated, curious, but without answering him France leaned forward and spoke around him, looking at Canada and that damned empty chair between them.

"_My dear, Canada do you know where your brother is?"_ Of all the times England wished he'd lost his French, now was certainly one of them. He scowled at the Frenchman next to him and ignored Canada's shy murmur about not knowing if America had even gotten on his flight or not.

"Look at me, Frog." He made this one of his better scowls, the kind that could peel paint off a rail or make Sealand shriek like a little girl.

France was doing it again. He was making those kinds of comments and not meeting England's fierce stare, he was bringing up dead business and poisoning the atmosphere. America wasn't here, fine, they could all see that and it didn't bear so much repetition or emphasis. Did the idiot get off on pointing out things like this? Was that a smile he was hiding behind his hand? Was he grinning as he sat there rubbing the stupid golden scruff on his stupid pointy chin?

The temptation to up-end his tea over France's head was almost overwhelming, and England nearly lost his composure when he remembered that France was the one who'd brought the tall paper cup to him in the first place. He didn't need this idiot acting like his friend and then acting like a guiltless jerk for no damned reason!

"_You-_"

"Are we all ready to begin?" England bit his tongue as China, their formal host, stood up at the front of the room and spoke to the assembled nations. Hong Kong was at the super-power's right, and from there it was a cascade of nations and personas. "I see we're missing someone, but that's no reason to waste time."

England's thoughts exactly. Casting off his tea and banishing the paper cup to the far corner of his allotted space, England uncapped his pen and looked down at the documents in front of him, trying to sink into the numbers. It was better than putting up with France or listening to China grin and wax poetic about whatever nonsense this conference was meant to accomplish. He wasn't bringing down his fire-wall and America wasn't here to dominate the topic of oil so the discussion of energy and information was completely ill-suited for whatever they were here for. In short, it was going to be like every other World Meeting they'd had since 1815: useless.

Italy had taken the seat across the table from England, and it was jarring to identify the Italian Tricolour with the brunette sitting in the chair. Almost two hundred years of European meetings had accustomed England the sight of two people representing the same nation, not one. And if he thought back to almost any meeting, then it had always been the younger brother taking the more active role in meetings, provided either one of them even bothered staying on task for more than ten minutes.

England would have to make the effort to say _something_ to Italy before today was over, he was obligated. Italy just looked so out of place sitting there; he had his hands up in front of his face, skinny fingers tented and green eyes focused down on the folder in front of him. He looked so strange that for a moment England struggled to find the word or reason for it. He looked roughly handled and haggard, and even across the wide table England could see the little puckered lines around Italy's lips and eyes, even his thick dark hair was lacking something.

Old, that was it. Italy looked old…

China was still talking, and with a quick glance at the front to check on him, England estimated that they were only about half way through the introductory speech. It wasn't quite the same as what their bosses in another building were experiencing; humans put a great deal more emphasis on the pomp of these get-togethers. Nations knew better than to try fooling each other with exaggerated pleasantries.

Glancing back over across the table and ignoring the empty seat at his right, England's fingers itched to take up his tea again but he reminded himself of the fop on his left and resisted. He'd probably make Italy uncomfortable by staring at him, but it was just that much easier to handle than any of the alternatives.

England glanced over again just in time to be rewarded with a strange sight. Italy took a breath and raised his eyes from his page to the nation next to him, but before he could utter a word to Spain the other nation made a point of turning around in his seat to face China. Confusion pinched his ear but before England could get caught up in the mystery, France scoffed and picked up his own pen. The Frenchman shook his head with a soft _"idiot_" under his breath before scratching something on the white pages.

This put England in a bad position, because curiosity and obligation were two very, very difficult compulsions to ignore. And it was even worse since he knew he'd already spent his budding anger over France's stupid questions, so if he wasn't angry…

"What was that?" He muttered, looking down at his own papers after watching a hurt look cross Italy's face before fading away behind an indifferent mask. France was spinning his pen between two fingers when England heard him take a breath, but then the conference room door opened and he barely heard something about a fight that was silly that _something-something-not-listening._

His first thought was America: it had to be him, didn't it? Who else could it- but America didn't have black hair, or green eyes, and he wasn't that old and that wasn't his briefcase either. And America didn't enter on the heels of the person who slipped inside either, his presence attracting first only a turn or two of the head, but as he spotted the empty seat to England's right…

No.

No, who the devil was this? A micro-nation? A new state? But he was positively European except that he was simply not. He came walking around the table with a firm stride and a jaunty step, and such foolish grin on his face that- _NO._

No, America wasn't this stupid. Alfred would never do this to them. He knew his responsibilities as a nation, Alfred was _not_ doing this to them.

"Terrible time trying to find this place," the American smiled his way through the words, his stress and tone all resembling some region of the continent England couldn't decode and place right now. "They sent me to the wrong complex. Doesn't make sense to split us up like this." England was staring out-right and as the man in the black suit took the nation's seat, and he saw Canada slowly lose all the colour in his face before the man even thought to wonder why the voice at the front of the room had stopped.

Human.

"I'm sorry, excuse me for being rude, but-" England commended himself for maintaining the ability to speak, because behind Canada Russia was slowly rising to his feet trying to get a better look. "-are you quite sure you're in the right place?"

The man looked terribly confused, and when he pulled a security badge with a familiar flag and state crest out of his jacket's inner pocket, England almost screamed in outrage.

That was America's pass. That was America's digital ID card for finding his way around hotels and conference centres and restaurants and car-rental companies. That was the badge issued by the government so the state could move freely without worrying about spending money or getting tangled up in the system. A hundred years ago such things had still existed, a thousand years ago they had been a crest stitched on a sleeve or branded on a shield.

That was a nation's pass.

"This is the Global Energy for Information conference, right? P-" This man was not a nation. He gave a name and England couldn't hold onto it because _this man was not one of them_. There was a buzzing noise in England's ear, loud and obnoxious, and when he felt a hand come down over his he wrapped his fingers through France's and squeezed as hard as he could.

He didn't break eye-contact with the human. His chest was hurting but he couldn't very well breathe. He barely heard China clear his throat and resume his speech while dismissing everything that had just happened.

The only words England understood clearly came from the American's mouth, and they were as follows:

"I'm here representing the United States, and I take it you're from London?"

England couldn't _breathe…_

* * *

**I have plans for Mr. America.**

**I can't remember but I think I did name-drop Medvedev(Rus) and Harper(Can) in Final Loop, Napolitano(Ita) was actually a character (WHOOPS) and if it matters to you then sure, the PM England chewed out was Cameron. It follows that the American President _should_ be Mitt Romney (****because ****this story is set in 2012/2013, and the Democrats wouldn't run someone else against the incumbent Obama)**, but it's NOT**. It's really really not because, um, well, you'll see.**

******Unfortunately it'll take a little while to get there. Although there's some F/A/C/E next chapter the Itabros kinda won the battle for the mid-20 chapters.**

**Ah well, leave a comment below and I'll see you in a week!**


	22. International Obligation

**Epica (Audiomachine), Decision of the Loved, My Heart Is Broken, Never Say Never.**

**whoops 12 hours early HAPPY GRAD TO MEEEEE~**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

International Obligation

France had hoped, whimsically, that this conference would be the ice-breaker necessary to open some kind of dialogue with Italy. What had happened to all of them together was now half a year gone, it was time to stop silently feeling bad for one another and begin standing up and reclaiming their roles as ten of the world's most powerful and influential nations. France had hoped, however naively, that the conference in Hong Kong would be the next step down the long and winding road to recovery.

And as much as he hadn't been _right_, he wasn't quite willing to give up on that dream.

Italy had spent the entire morning staring blankly at every slide someone posted and wallowing in confusion at each page of the dossier. He'd fled the meeting room faster than anyone else now that lunch had been called, and this hadn't surprised France. Why would Italy linger when Spain was being petulant and had refused to offer even the slightest hint or clue to his _supposed_ closest and dearest friend? Why would anyone stay in a meeting room with a _human_?

Canada had also fled, phone in hand and Russia following at a slow, stately pace that worried France, but he couldn't deal with it right now. Canada could handle himself, and Russia could be trusted not to hurt him.

Speaking of handling oneself, it made sense that Germany hadn't come within ten yards of Italy yet. To push him would be unkind and, unlike Spain's distasteful attitude, France could understand Germany's position. He did not want to see the Italian, speak to him, and probably not even hear his voice or acknowledge his presence, not yet. For Germany it had only been three months, not since the end of the mansion, but since the end of his Italy's desperate life.

The death of a nation was a terrible, painful experience. They all hated it and no one had coped in quite the same way. Whenever France found himself thinking too deeply on the matter his thoughts invariably shifted to the names they had revealed to one another, and in that state of mind Francis understood that it would take Ludwig many, many years to come to grips with the way Feliciano had died, and how Lovino had replaced him.

So they were going to have a very busy interlude today. Ludwig's behaviour was excused and Antonio needed a sound kick to the head, and Ivan could deal with Matthew. Yao and Kiku were busy trying to convince the American to leave the conference because he simply couldn't follow the discussion, no matter how hard he tried, and there was no sense being petulant about it.

Gilbert wasn't here and Lovino needed a minute to himself. And Francis had to take care of Arthur.

But,

Now, that statement didn't mean taking care of in the sense of wrapping the Englishman up in his arms and murmuring sweet nothings to him, because that only worked at specific times and this was certainly, positively not one of them. It also wasn't 'had to' as in Francis was actually obligated to follow and check on him; Arthur wasn't broken, not by any stretch of the word, but he was upset.

So nevermind that nonsense about Francis having to take care of Arthur. The truth was that Francis just wanted to see him.

"England?"

"What do you want?"

Green spaces were practically a requirement of world meeting places, even if the one here in Hong Kong was actually a concrete space. It was relatively quiet and the stone and metal art pieces performed the same function as trees and shrubs, providing privacy. It had been sunny out before they'd arrived, but now the February skies were grey with smog and clouds. Where was that cold wind coming from? France was certain this part of the world had always been much warmer…

"Ah, there you are." France laughed the words casually as if he hadn't already noticed England leaning on the concrete ledge at the edge of the space. It was rather like a rooftop garden, except they weren't on top of the building, and the only thing to look down on from the edge was the loud and noisy streets of the crowded city. "I was sure I'd find you out here."

It was nice to see England up and walking around again. Canes suited him as an accessory or decoration, but not as a walking aid, and the same had been said numerous times about the wheelchair he'd suffered in for several weeks. The experience had hopefully taught him not to abuse his strange magic anymore, but France was just happy that the Englishman could lean over the concrete and place his weight on his elbows like that, one leg bent with the toe of his shoe scuffing the solid grey. It was much better than seeing him in pain, even if he was still as cranky as ever.

"Did you need something?" Ah, and he was certainly being cranky as France sauntered up, shrugging with a smile although England could see neither gesture.

"Not particularly. Canada seemed quite upset by America's _faux-pas_ this morning, so I-"

"Francis." Oh? How surprising of him to change the names like that, France was not used to having the shorter blonde bring up things from the place they did not speak of. "I want you to stop doing that."

Watching him turn around, Francis wasn't sure why Arthur was giving him such a stern look. Why the folded arms and bitter scowl? He really had to learn to take better care of those eyebrows of his, they were shadowing his green eyes. Before Francis could needle him with the familiar tease the Englishman's composure made him pause. Arthur looked so torn between anger and something else that Francis didn't want to interrupt him, he just waited to hear what else was to come.

Arthur took a breath and then held it, and after that he took a second breath and let both out through his teeth in a huff. Finally Francis couldn't stand it, so he asked:

"Stop doing what?"

"Stop bringing _him_ up." Who? The him whose name Arthur couldn't even say? Francis didn't even have to repeat himself, Arthur was glaring at him enough already. He stuck one hand on his hip and the Frenchman felt the urge to slap down the hand that came up and pointed at his face. "I'm sick of every conversation we have turning into something about him. If I wanted to think about him every thirty seconds then I would my spend time with Canada, not you."

"Ohon, are you saying I am a distraction?" They both expected Arthur to make a sharp retort, because Francis was actively waiting for it, and Arthur's mouth popped open with one. His head was tilted just-so and there was a glint in his green eyes as he accepted the challenge. But then he didn't, and it was the strangest thing.

Arthur Kirkland of the United Kingdom straightened his head and closed his mouth, and the glint in his eyes faded until they were an unusually dark shade of green for him. He didn't look sad though, and when he looked at Francis it was in a very strange way, with his hands slipping into his jacket pockets in silence. No fists or finger-pointing, no sulking or scowling.

"Arthur?" This wasn't like him. Something was wrong again, but what was upsetting him like this? Why wasn't he alright yet? Why wasn't he completely better yet?

"That's not what I'm saying." What?

Arthur just shrugged but that wasn't enough. He was able to look straight at Francis and make his statement, but he didn't follow it up with anything. He wouldn't even make up his mind and decide whether to look angry or sad or upset. He just looked blank. Was lost the right word for that expression?

"Let's go back inside, Francis." Arthur looked so lost… "You wanted to talk to Italy, didn't you?"

* * *

Three days of this? Three _days_ of this? Romano couldn't handle it, there had to be a way to wiggle out of and get as far away from this conference as possible.

'_Calm down, calm down, calm down…_' He splashed his face with cold water again and tried to get over the panic kicking around in his stomach, but when Romano looked up into the mirror, he knew he was in trouble.

He was an old nation, he was an old, first-world nation, fully modernized and industrialized and all the other –ized things. The problem was that while Italy had a big part to play on the world state, Lovino hadn't had to handle this level of politics in… well, a really fucking long time. Either it had been Spain's job during the pre and early-modern periods, or he'd just let Veneziano deal with the talks and do all the stuffy things since their unification. South Italy had always been the producer, the worker, the sweat and dirt labourer, not the politician or the logician.

Internal economic problems? Sure, he could deal with that. Internal policy and law-making were part of a nation's daily life. Romano could work in Rome just fine and he'd been handling it for months now, but all of this international shit? Japan had been speaking for a solid thirty minutes and Romano couldn't remember more than ten words he'd said in sequence. His notes from Korea's presentation were a jumble and a mess, and he didn't even know what Russia had been saying except something about electricity and polar bears.

Romano turned the tap back on, and this time he stuck his face right under the cold stream. Calm down, calm down, calm down. His boss and a bunch of his staff were in Hong Kong for their own brand of talks and conversation, so Romano would just blow-off the nations' parties and get-togethers and go talk to the beurocrats instead. Maybe he'd call home too, or maybe he'd just let Veneziano rest, he wasn't sure yet.

Romano just knew not to _panic…_

"Italy." –FUCK.

Shutting off the tap, Romano straightened up and groped for the paper towels sitting in the wall dispenser, shaking off his hands before wiping away the cold wet clinging to his eyelashes and chin. He looked over at the washroom door where it had just swung shut, and for a moment he almost called America a bastard for the stunt he'd pulled this morning by sending over that human.

But he couldn't say that, because it wasn't America standing there, it was Canada.

Oh…

"Look, before you-"

"Where is he?" _Oh, _this was not what Romano needed right now. Canada was all buttoned-up and trim in his grey suit, a red tie making the white collar of his shirt pop around his throat. He had one hand in his pocket and the other resting on the long counter that stretched the length of the bathroom, his reflection in the tall mirror highlighting how deep his frown was. He didn't look- "The last time I saw him was at your house, now tell me where you're keeping him."

"If he hasn't told you then-"

"Don't patronize me, Italy!" Romano put his hands up as soon as Canada's voice rose above its usual soft murmur. He wasn't shouting, but the blonde with Russia's purple eyes never _had_ to shout to make his point. "His office keeps re-routing me to that human delegate we met this morning, his phone is off, I've been trying to track him down since New Year's and _you_-"

"Don't blame me for this, I sent him home before Christmas!"

"Then what did you do to him!"

Romano turned away. He wasn't going to get into a bathroom fight with Canada, that was not how this was going to go down. The Canadian could stand there and body block the door all he wanted: it was a public washroom and there was another one _right_ behind Romano so that was where he went. More shaken than he'd admit, he briefly calling back over his shoulder with:

"I gave him two weeks without you, so if he doesn't want to talk then take a hint." It was just one more problem on Romano's heaping plate, and if he didn't have to track down America then he wouldn't. If it would make everyone calm down then maybe, just maybe, Romano would try calling his house in Naples. He couldn't imagine America going there already, but it would only take him a few minutes and cost a couple Euros to find out for sure.

"Italy!" No, damn it! Romano had his own brother to worry about! "Don't walk away from me when I ask you a-"

"I'll walk away until you start asking questions I can answer!" Pulling open the second door, Romano barely saw the person standing right in front of him before Canada got a hold on his arm and wrenched him back. His shoulders hit the open door and held it there, Canada's fists pressing him in place as Romano poured every ounce of his self-control into _not_ swiping his hand across the other nation's face as he was assaulted.

"What do you know?" Canada hissed.

"Get your hands off of me."

"Not until you tell me-"

"Canada!" That accented voice sent an uncomfortable bolt down Romano's spine, but Canada nearly jumped before Romano took his wrists and dragged the kid's hands down off his lapels. "Do I even want to know?"

Judging by Germany's tone, no, he didn't want to know what this was, and Romano was fine with not explaining it. He gave Canada a stern glare so he wouldn't have to look at the third nation, watching the younger blonde lower his eyes and rub his hands together uncomfortably. Romano wasn't stupid: Canada almost never lost his temper, and he certainly never put his hands on someone without a damned good reason. But that didn't excuse him, it just made it harder to stay mad.

Romano knuckled.

"Before I sent him home he kept going on about his property in some state of his," as much as it sucked to help someone who wasn't high on Romano's list of friendly nations, he couldn't help himself. "_Memfus_ or something. You know him better than I do, you figure it out."

"I… I didn't think of that." Canada murmured softly, still staring straight down at the tiles under his feet. "Thank you, um, please excuse me…"

Romano could have demanded an apology, but it was better for all of them that the Canadian just get away as fast as he could. That way, when it was just Germany and Romano left standing there the Italian could straighten his jacket with a tug and let himself out with just a polite nod in the other nation's direction. No fuss, no mess, no-

"Italy."

- damn it…

Romano stopped walking. He hated himself for waiting so calmly for something he didn't know how to handle.

"Yeah?" He let himself pivot slightly on his toe, placing his hands in the grey pockets of his jacket without straightening the black tie where he knew it was crooked under his chin. He saw Germany standing there with his back to him still, the charcoal grey of his suit showing how slumped his shoulders had become over the last few months. There were slivers of grey in the short blonde hairs running down the back of his head and neck, and without even seeing his face Romano heard the exhaustion in one little word.

Germany's state right now had nothing to do with his power-house economy or financial master-plan. He was flagging like the rest of them, only worse because his people couldn't understand what the problem was. The cost of a nation's heartache was disenchantment for his citizens. It was that silent, hopeless questioning of what it's all for when the progress feels so slow and the work keeps piling up. Working for the sake of keeping busy could only sustain someone for so long before they gave up, and working just for the sake of not giving up was hardly any better.

"Spain…" The way Germany sighed the name was accurate, Romano kept struggling to say it right himself. "He said you had something you wanted to tell me?"

"Is that right?" Germany glanced back at him and Romano wondered where he'd left his energy. The one blue eye he saw looked so washed out and exhausted it was almost the wrong colour. "Yeah, I guess you could say I do."

The hallway was quiet, everyone had probably drifted down to the dining room on the floor below to freshen up and eat something while their break lasted. An hour was the usual length of time given for delegates, Romano wasn't sure how it worked for the humans. If he wanted to, or rather, if he was comfortable enough to, Romano could have told him everything right here and not had to worry about anyone else hearing him.

But he didn't know how he'd start. Being a bit like himself was one option, _"Hey, bastard, stop frowning everywhere with that ugly potato face of yours, my brother hates it when you do that!"_, or maybe he'd read into the atmosphere and continue in the same kind of quiet, almost hesitant voice Germany was already using; "_Follow me and just promise you won't cry_,".

But if he told him… Now here would be the problem: what next? What after that? Veneziano hadn't asked for this nation yet. He hadn't asked for any of the Mansion's victims, and he'd actually taken steps to prevent their names from coming up. If Romano told Germany anything, it would have to include a ban on him visiting Rome…

Could he do that?

Could he look someone in the eye who was so heart-broken, so devastated, and in so much pain and say to him: "_The person you're mourning can't stand to think about you. He hates the sound of your name, he changes topics to avoid you, and the thought of you ever showing up outside the house to see him shakes him more than planes or artillery ever could." _Could he really do that?

"Italy?" Germany was waiting for an answer, but Romano didn't know what he was supposed to say.

"Not yet." He didn't have an answer yet, he just didn't know what to say. "You don't need to know yet. It's not state business, so…"

"Then it's not important." Germany picked different words from the ones Romano had been struggling for, but he had to agree with a solemn nod. It was important, but not yet…

"Right…"

Not yet…

* * *

The day was long, and slow, and by the time Canada found himself sitting down to dinner he was too exhausted to do more than pick at his elaborately prepared meal. Hong Kong had gone all out to serve a feast in the dining room, and Canada knew he and China were both circulating to make sure everyone was happy and satisfied with their meal, but he just couldn't stomach the sparkling wines or heavy sauces right now.

"Come now, old boy it's not that bad." Easy for England to say…

"You're being entirely too hard on yourself." That was sweet, France, but ultimately false.

"You're not the ones who lost their temper…" He answered sullenly, nudging a piece of braised pork across his plate. "I still can't get over it…"

"But that's not what happened at all." Russia chirped, and Canada glanced up as a fork speared the piece of meat he'd been playing with, the other nation happily popping it in his mouth with a smile.

Hey, get your own pork…

"I slammed him against a wall…" Oh god he felt horrible just remembering it! Setting his chopsticks down for a moment so he could wallow in it, Canada swung out his foot and gave France a kick under the table when he saw another fork creeping in towards his plate. England jumped and passed the blow along as a smack on the arm. "Italy of _all_ people."

"If you had lost your temper, Canada, you would have slammed Italy _through_ the wall." At least Russia was trying to make him feel better, and Canada nudged his glasses up his nose so he could rub his eyes. He was so tired; the flight to China was always one of his least favourites… "And he seems to have taken it well, not one menacing glare from his table all night."

"…Have you been keeping a look out, Russia?" England asked, Canada looking up in time to catch an uncomfortable smile on the other nation's face. Russia just grinned and France cleared his throat, nodding over Canada's shoulder at the table in general.

"He seems fine…"

The dining room was a sparkling chamber filled with rhinestones and gold drapes. It resonated with that 1930s charm updated to the 21st century with chrome pieces and art nouveau decorating the spaces between tables. When Canada glanced back through the goldenrod patterns and black-tie formalwear, he found Italy sitting at a table with Switzerland and Austria, Poland chattering quickly at the three of them about something important. They were all nodding in agreement, except Italy, who was scowling and shaking his head no.

He didn't seem interested in glaring knives at Canada's back, but when the blonde looked back down at his plate he noticed a sizable portion of his rice was now missing.

He kicked England again and this time he hit who he intended.

"Well, what do you think of- erm…" That was strange. France started off strong with whatever he was going to say but then trailed off with a funny look at England. Canada watched his two former colonists share a strange moment, and then with a laugh and a smile France set his cutlery down neatly on top of his plate. "Nevermind, foolish question."

"What were you going to ask?" France scooted his chair back as Canada chased him with the question, and England snorted into his ice-water before ignoring the topic completely. Russia was apparently more perceptive than him tonight, and immediately made the connection.

"I think he was going to ask about our American friend." Oh, _him_.

"Is he still around?" Canada asked, glancing at England and France again as the latter stood up, straightening his black suit-jacket.

"I think I saw China speaking to him a minute ago. Where are you going, France?" While Russia answered his question, Canada began plucking up pieces of his meal before anyone else could steal them. His appetite wasn't back completely, but on principle he wouldn't allow the entire table to mooch off his plate.

"To speak with our fair Italia." France sighed, adding a whimsical note to what could otherwise have been a heavy topic.

"You _still_ haven't spoken to him?" England piped up, glaring up at him while Canada watched them interact. It was nice to see them behaving normally. "What have you been up to all day? You said you were going to bring something up before our afternoon continued, and then you tried again before we came down for dinner!"

"Well, unlike you my scruffy friend," Ah, France was annoyed. Canada could eat in peace when he saw the tension needle his Papa's cheeks and stress his face just so. "I happen to put a great deal of thought into when and how I approach someone in these matters."

"These matters my foot! You're just a coward!"

"_Better a coward than a rosbif-_"

"Are you finished?" Russia cooed softly, apparently very pleased as Canada cleaned up a portion of his remaining dinner before France and England could escort one another, hissing and bickering, across the dining room floor and out into the hall. "There's dessert if you like."

"I think I'm about ready for bed, actually." Dabbing his lips with his napkin, Canada set the bundled linen down on his plate, checking his watch quickly while Russia draped a comfortable arm over the back of his chair. It was eight in the evening here in Hong Kong, so… "But it's still pretty early in Memphis, so I guess I have some time to kill." Giving a… quaint little smile, Canada looked up to see what the other nation thought of having an hour or two free before going to sleep. Intercontinental flights were long and meetings were boring, but conferences themselves could be rather… fun?

But not this time around, because Russia's eyes only lit up for a moment before he remembered something and glanced across the dining room again. Canada felt a light pinch of disappointment before he followed his lover's gaze and found China grinning at them from two tables away.

"I think our host wanted to talk to you first…" Bless Russia for sounding so disappointed when he said that. His tone made it that much easier for Canada to gently set a hand on his thigh and give an affectionate rub. Later maybe, or tomorrow, there was no rush.

Canada sat up with a smile and folded his hands neatly in his lap as China swept across the floor towards them, his ageless face filled with amusement and an ill-concealed sense of pride at how well his guests were being treated.

No rush, Canada repeated. He would track down America after listening to the deals China wanted to whisper in his ear…

* * *

**DONE.**

**I'm an ESL teacher~ I'm an ESL teacher yay!  
**


	23. Graceless

**Shattered, Empty, I'm Wide Awake, Lullaby, Uninstall English Version, 1stp klosr, KRWLING**

**If I've done my job properly then the next few chapters should be really, really fun for you guys. I think that's why I'm so damned impatient about posting them.**

**Mushy chapter, enjoy!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Graceless

Spain knew he hadn't been taking things well. He knew he'd overreacted at some point and had made a mess of things, but he also knew, deep-down, that he wasn't completely wrong. In fact, if he had it his way then Spain concluded that he wasn't wrong at all.

Not that this meant Romano wasn't right, it just meant Spain wasn't completely wrong.

Not that he thought Romano was in the right, mind you. He just knew South Italy wouldn't listen _at all_ if Spain tried pointing out just how wrong he was.

So it was a mess, because when it came down to it Spain couldn't play this game with Romano, he'd simply exhausted his patience. If he spoke to South Italy in public then everything would come out in a rush, absolutely every little thing, and that, in the end, would be a disaster.

Spain owed it to North Italy to mind his temper around South Italy. At least in Public.

They weren't in public now.

"How long are you gonna be like this?" Ouch, Romano, that was harsh… But fine. Okay, if that was how he wanted to start this then Spain was fine with that.

"Like what?" He asked, and he knew he sounded tired, and he knew that after another six hours of dreary meetings and reports neither one of them wanted to talk about this. But here they were, in Spain's hotel room, getting into something dangerous instead of something relaxing or fun. Spain had invited him up, it was probably the only thing he'd said to Romano over the entire four days in Hong Kong, but South Italy had accepted just the same.

They were leaving tomorrow morning, but South Italy had accepted a very, very belated olive branch.

"Mad at me." Was Spain mad at him? Silly question: of course he was. He couldn't talk himself out of it either. Every single time Spain thought about it he wound up back in the very same place: he wasn't wrong, Romano wasn't right, and Spain would rather just not put up with him than try to work through it peaceably.

The alternative, of course, was to just not be peaceful, but that thought hurt almost as much as the reality. Spain had spent his rage, he'd lived off of it for centuries and he'd conquered huge tracts of land with it. But after all the wars and the killing he'd always come home to sweet, spoiled, unbearably cute South Italy, and yelling at him had never seemed right. Even after Romano grew up, even after he left the Empire with his brother, after the civil strife and world wars and economic trials, yelling at Romano had never felt natural.

If Spain could say for sure what he hated most about everything that had happened to them half a year ago, it had to be this. This stress. This moment where he looked at his Romano and saw what had really happened to him; all those little lines pulling at his eyes and lips, the coarseness of his hair and the rough, dry skin that had turned his strong hands into abused leather and corded muscle. He'd lost weight and his skin had dulled and darkened dramatically as his health deteriorated, too many refugees bringing too many problems from North Italy down deep into the South.

If Spain had to choose one thing about the last six months that he hated and resented the most, the one thing he would take back if he could, it would be this: it was how instead of wanting to rush up and take Romano into his arms, Spain just wanted to storm up and slap him.

"Have you told Germany yet?" Spain didn't clarify what he meant, he didn't have to. He'd give Romano the benefit of the doubt here, and the way the Italian took a breath and averted his green eyes let him know he was right.

"Not yet, no."

"Why not?"

"Veneziano hasn't asked for him, I'm not going to force it." There was comfort in how quickly Romano came up with that answer, like he'd actually thought about this already, but Spain wasn't entirely convinced. He couldn't be, not after the last few months. "Wait, is this why you've been so-?"

"You still have to tell him."

"Did you not just hear me?"

"Veneziano can't decide what's best for Germany right now, but you and I can both see what's happening to him." The grief was killing him, which meant it was destroying Prussia, and Spain couldn't tell him the short, simple truth that would make everything okay again. Germany's spirit was eroding the same way Romano's youth was, and Spain couldn't stand it. "Romano, he has to know." He couldn't keep this secret.

"Is this why you're angry?" Don't change the subject, Roma. Spain folded his arms slowly and he watched Romano's fingers twitch at the edge of his jacket, annoyed. "Germany. You're mad about Germany. Three months you haven't said a word to me and it's all because of that damned-"

"Your brother loves him."

"_Loved!_ He _loved_ him!" Romano didn't shout, but he raised his voice to make his point, pointing at Spain with one hand and shaking his head. "I don't know what he feels anymore, but I'm not jumping to conclusions just because you think it'll bring a happy ending!"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what _are _you saying? That I should tell Germany and then say he can't come to Rome to see him?" Something like that. "Then you're fucking heartless."

"I'm not the one keeping secrets!"

"For a damned good reason!"

"No! You think letting him grieve and finally get over everything is going to make things any easier when he learns the truth?" It would take Germany years to get that far, how long was Romano going to sit on the issue without doing anything? Until 2020? 2050? Nations could live for a long, long time without contacting one another. "Tell him now, let him adjust, and when Feliciano wants to see him again then he can go without having to sort everything out in his head first."

"Adjust. Adjust to the idea that the person he misses can't stand him." Just the way Romano could hiss the words without whining or screaming showed how much he'd had to change over the last few months. The words sounded backed up and thick in his throat, the conflict painting deep lines around his eyes and down his cheeks. He was aging before Spain's very eyes. "I won't do that to them, Spain."

"It's what your brother needs."

"No! Europe needs Germany to keep doing what he's doing, not for me to knock him to his knees and break his heart again, I won't do it-" _No!_

"Don't bring politics into this, Romano!" God, don't do that in front of him. Romano couldn't conflate the issues like that; he'd make more mistakes trying to follow the logic than actually putting anything into action. "Don't try and hide behind things you don't understand."

"What politics, it's common sense!" That didn't ma- "Who just bailed out your industries, Spain? Who just propped up Greece's economy? It sure as hell wasn't me, or England, or Poland; it was Germany with France's help and I'm not going to ruin all of that!"

"Germany won't collapse if you give him back his _reason_ for being so-"

"_You don't know that!" _Romano had a way of yelling when he was afraid that was different from when he was angry. It wasn't nearly as shrill, in fact it was almost as low as his normal voice, maybe even deeper, and it shook the smaller nation to his core when he used it. Romano snapped his exhausted eyes shut and Spain watched him bow his head under the stress, hands up trying to cover the tears. The dwindling light caught the two silver hairs threaded across his scalp, and the greys made him look so old and small in the glow. "I _know_ I'm no good with trade or economics, Spain. But I know I need Germany's help still. I know that if his industries crumble like ours did then the Euro will shatter, and then... I just…"

Spain was no good at staying angry. He was still right and Romano was still wrong, but he couldn't stay mad at him. It was wrong and it hurt them both to try, especially when they were both standing all alone in a place where they needed each other. Romano wouldn't open his eyes and Spain didn't try to make him, he just did what felt right and what always made them feel better. He wrapped one arm around his former dependant's stiff shoulders, used his other hand to pull Romano's chin up, and then he kissed him.

It wasn't a deep or controlling kiss, and Romano sucked in a breath just before their lips touched and Spain slipped his comfortably over the warm pair in front of him. Romano's lips had grown chapped since they'd last kissed, and he made a quiet sound in his throat before Spain felt one rough hand brush against his cheek and hold his face. He still smelled like fragrant grape vines and freshly turned earth, heavy with clay, oregano spicing his cheeks as Spain tilted his head and felt Romano press back gently. He was warm enough to suggest a fever when he wrapped one arm around Spain's chest, shuffling closer to him before the Kingdom threaded his long fingers back through the Republic's coarse hair.

All the other problems seemed to shrink and go away once he had Romano properly wrapped up in his arms again. Just like that his anchor was restored and ready to hold him down in this calm moment. Nothing could creep up on him and hurt what was most important if he was standing here holding onto it, no one could take Romano away if Spain wouldn't let go of him.

The kiss was barely over before Romano pulled him back for another, and a series of short, chaste kisses soothed the bruises and fears until Spain just pressed his face down against Romano's neck. And he held him, and he breathed him in, and he felt Romano bury his face against his shoulder with his arms wrapped around his chest, just trying to keep them together.

"I love you." Spain whispered, because Romano wasn't saying anything and, as nice as the silence was, they still had more to say. "You know that I love you, Lovino." He used that name, because right now he had to. It was the perfect name for this, right here. His eyes were open and looking at nothing across the room, but he closed them again when he felt Lovino swallow hard and take a breath.

"You have a hell of a way of showing it, sometimes…"

"It's the passion, I guess." It went both ways, the burning love that made him want to cook for and sing to and hold and kiss the nation he shared a special bond with. But it was the same as the frigid, painful, stinging resentment that ate away at him. Torturous magic, power plays, social upheaval, natural disasters, financial collapse, emotional blackmail… those things could get at you no matter who you were, and the country of passion wasn't wrong for acting out. He wasn't wrong at all. "But I love you. And I know I only told you after what that monster did to us, but you know I've loved you for much, much longer than that."

"You talk too much." He felt Lovino's hands gripping his back and pull a little tighter, so he turned his face against his lover's throat to leave a kiss on the side of his neck. "Stop saying it and just-"

"I'm not done." He felt tension bolt down Lovino's spine and brushed his hand down his back a few times, cradling his head closer to sooth him. "Please listen."

Lovino stopped and tried to obey him. Antonio knew it just by the way he felt the Italian swallow again and follow that guiding hand behind his head, nuzzling down close to his neck. He was so warm from his depleted resources, and the stress was making him tremble in Antonio's arms.

"I love you…" Antonio whispered, "so you have to understand that I don't know what I'd do if it was you instead of him." Lovino didn't respond, so maybe he didn't understand what Antonio meant, and that was okay. So long as he had Lovino held close like this, he could stay calm and explain. "If everything that happened… happened to you. If you were the one hurting and hiding, and it was Feliciano refusing to tell me whether or not you were even alive… If he could look me in the eye and give a straight-faced lie about you, to protect you I know but- but I don't know what I would do."

God, it was just too painful to think about, but it was all he could think about. Every time he saw Prussia looking sleepless and sick with worry, or Germany standing tall through sheer will power and no real strength or support. Every time he heard Portugal mention England and France's hopes to stimulate the Italian economy, or how Switzerland was trying to find a contract to send Italy's way for work…

"I don't know what I'd do when I found out the truth, Lovino. And the longer it's kept a secret the less I can keep in touch with that idea of me. What would I do to him when he finally told me? What would I do to him if I found out some other way? Through a friend? Or an accident maybe? What if you came to me and your brother didn't even know, and without warning the person I'd loved and mourned for years was right in front of me?"

"Veneziano can't-"

"What if, Lovino? What if? Eventually there will be a conference in Rome. Eventually you will have to host your investors and friends, so what if?" Antonio didn't know when his words had dropped to a hushed whisper, but he couldn't pick them back up again. He wanted the sounds he was making to fade away until neither of them could hear them anymore, because he could feel Lovino starting to shake a little harder, and holding him a little tighter didn't fix it. "To tell you the honest truth, my love, I don't think I could keep myself from hating him…"

"That's not the same thing-"

"Yes it is."

"No: I've never been Germany's friend, it's doesn't matter-"

"Feliciano threw me out just for yelling at you, Lovi. He won't choose Ludwig over you." See reason, Lovino. Please see it… "He'll choose you, he won't have to think about it. And if Ludwig is anything like me, then he'll hate you too much to come near either of you. The sight of you will fill him with all kinds of rage and the things you won't let anyone bring near Feliciano right now. The two of you will force him out of your lives to keep each other safe." Because even if it was just with words or gestures, Ludwig would find a way to attack Lovino, and Feliciano wouldn't let him, and Lovino would do anything to keep Feliciano calm and peaceful. The Italian brothers would stand back-to-back to defend one another, it was what being part of the same country did to people like them. They wouldn't have survived two world wars together if they couldn't be counted on to sacrifice for each other.

It just hurt to think of being the target of that combined hostility. Antonio didn't know how he'd be able to handle it if he were Ludwig, so he owed it to his friends to try and stop it before things could get that far out of control. He wished it were only sympathy he was feeling, not empathy, but a hundred and fifty years ago Antonio had tested that fledgling bond, and the Spanish Empire had lost…

"He'll choose me." Romano whispered the words softly against Spain's shoulder, and he turned his face close against the Italian's head so he could smell those grape vines and dried spices again. He only loosened his arms slowly after he felt Romano's arms slowly slip down away from his back. Spain didn't really want to let go yet, but they pulled apart until Romano was right in front of him, head down and hands gently gripping the front of Spain's suit jacket. He wouldn't look up, not right away at least, but Spain was just slowly leaning in to kiss his forehead when Romano found his words:

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Oh… that's not what I meant, Roma."

"I know." They were both speaking softly, but Romano still wouldn't lift his eyes. He took a breath and licked his chapped lips, and this time he let Spain kiss his brow gently before he spoke. "But why wouldn't he choose me? Why did you have to say it like that?"

"Because… if you make North Italy choose only one of you, he won't think of taking Germany?" Spain didn't feel like he really answered the question with that, and gently placed his hands on Romano's shoulders. "So, you have to tell Germany sooner, rather than later, so he has time to adjust and you can both be there for your brother."

"But the way you say it, it's like it's wrong for him to choose only me."

"No, I-"

"He doesn't need Germany if he has me. Even if he loves him, he doesn't _need_ him. He doesn't want to see him at all: why can't you understand that?" He was defensive. He was too defensive right now.

"Why can't you see that keeping it a secret is just as wrong?"

"Because telling Germany now will hurt him at his weakest, and that will hurt Europe, and it will hurt Veneziano if Germany decides he hates me enough to force a meeting."

"You're fear mongering, Germany wouldn't-"

"And he _lives _in fear." The hardness of Romano's voice cut him off, and Spain could feel the way his hands tightened on his jacket so the fabric began to wrinkle. When South Italy dropped his hands the Spanish Kingdom couldn't decide what to do with himself. The urge to hold Romano again couldn't compete with the need to shake sense into him, so he did neither. Were they already this far gone? "Don't tell me about fear, Spain, don't act like I don't know how crippling it is."

"Then don't doubt me when I tell you how much anger and pain you're bringing down on yourself."

"I can handle it." Such a stern voice, and the compulsion to help him was fading so fast Spain couldn't bring it back. He was losing him.

"Can Veneziano?"

"I'll handle it _for _him." Losing him… He was walking away-!

"Romano wait." He couldn't leave, Spain couldn't lose him like this again!

"If it were me instead of him, do you know what I would do, Spain?" Romano stopped walking and turned with his hand on the door, he'd gotten over there so fast Spain's head was still spinning. No, this couldn't be happening again. Spain could barely speak the words, they came out like a whisper:

"What would you do, Romano?" What would he want if the trauma were his instead? The way Romano clenched his teeth and pulled back his lips was animalistic and cruel.

"I'd never want to see you again." Wha- "Or feel your hands, or sense you near me, Spain. If it was your voice I'd heard all those times then I'd never want the real you to speak to me again." His face was suddenly different again, not older or aging under the weight of his words, but drawn and serious, like a mask. What was he hiding behind it? "And if my brother had to choose between doing what Germany wanted for your peace of mind, or protecting me from all of my stupid, irrational, crippling fears, then I'd rather die than lose the ability to trust him again." Again…?

No, that was impossible. Romano and Veneziano have never not trusted one another, not since they became one nation together. That was the whole point of Spain trying to intercede like this: he had to bring sense to South Italy before the two of them closed ranks around one another in an unbreakable front. The only time that shield had ever come close to breaking was when they'd turned on each other at the end of the Second World War, but in a global war that had remained a private fight between brothers. The one time North Italy had caught the South he'd let him go before he could be taken into German custody, and when the war was over Romano had called in every single favour the Allies owed him to keep his brother safe…

Even when they were enemies, North and South Italy had always trusted each other with their safety.

"Romano… Romano what _happened_ to him?" In that house, locked up all alone with that monster in the quiet. What in God's name had happened to break a hundred and fifty years of unshaken trust? "Please, just stop it with these secrets."

"I love you. That's not a secret, Spain." It wasn't, but he had to just stop- "But I will never love anyone half as much as I need him." Romano, wait- "And I will never, for a moment, even consider putting your feelings before my family's needs."

"_Don't do this…" _

"It's done."

Done. Finished. Over. Just like that everything was done, and there was nothing more. Romano was looking at him with those masked green eyes and Spain was struggling to breathe through the tight heat in his chest. His words had been twisted against him by the paranoia staring him in the face, and Spain knew without speaking that he couldn't say anything to change his mind or bring him back to reason. There was no rationalizing with someone like this. If ever Spain could have helped him, that time had passed.

"Then leave."

* * *

"What do you mean, multilingual?"

The American President, as he was getting used to calling himself, wasn't exactly sure what the man to his right was talking about. They'd been in Hong Kong for four days, one for rest and three of work, and now they were finishing off the formalities with a state dinner. The two of them were precisely on time for the cocktail hour, but were lingering in the hall just outside the fancy hotel parlour where the party was being held.

"I mean the conversation never stays in English for more than five words, even the British diplomat-"

"He has a name, Phil."

"Well he won't tell me what it is." That was preposterous, no decent politician ever hesitated to give his name. "Well then they're not decent. I'm telling you, Mister President, I've been given the cold shoulder all week. And before you ask, no, there are no translation services available in Building E. The only guy I think's had a harder week than me is the Italian, but at least he speaks whatever that mumbled stuff is."

"Mumbled stuff?" The younger man looked stressed just thinking about it, pinching his lips so they went white and tugging heartlessly on his tie and lapels to make sure his clothes were straight.

"I've no idea what language it is, it's like their own secret code or something." Maybe this job was a bit too much for Phil to handle… "They just sit around this big table and yell at each other from across the room. Hell, just this afternoon two of them started fighting each other!" Fighting each other… "The Frenchman and the Spanish fellow, and I've no idea what it was about either so don't ask."

This was all ridiculous and insulting, the President wasn't exactly sure what the meetings in Building E were about, but this was too much. Was everyone on the world stage a complete idiot? The heads of state he'd already spoken to had seemed competent enough, smart individuals, charismatic for the most part and intelligent even if he didn't necessarily agree with some of them. Why were there even two conferences going on in the first place?

"Well just try and relax for tonight, and we'll talk about it again in the morning." They'd been talking about it all week in short bursts, but it would be a long flight back to Washington tomorrow and they'd have more than enough time to discuss it then.

The parlour was exactly what you would expect from a nation trying too hard to impress foreigners. He understood that red was a celebratory colour in Chinese culture, but the crimson drapes and gold detailing felt too harsh. The white stone floors reflected the light back so the place was allowed to feel airy and open, so at least he didn't feel like he was walking into a den of Chinese vampires.

Despite the horror stories his staff member had been relating to him all week, the President had had no trouble speaking in English and wearing his earpiece when it came to dignitaries who weren't fluent enough to give a speech. On a night like this, where everyone was meant to relax and mingle with far fewer political strings tying them up, he slipped easily past other dignitaries and soon found himself with a glass of wine in one hand and a tight circle of State Heads to listen to.

He was immediately confused by the content.

"I'm not ashamed to say it, Deutschland hasn't been himself in months." It was the strangest error the American President had heard his German counterpart make since their arrival in Hong Kong, but if he thought about it then it made sense. Germany _was_ still known as the "fatherland".

"That doesn't surprise me," but there was no excuse for the Russian: "I've been Rossiya's boss before and unless we're discussing Canada he simply doesn't want to talk." The American President frowned slightly and tried to hide it behind a sip of his wine, watching the Canadian Prime Minister hold his breath for a moment and shift his weight while trying to think.

"He's always quiet about international affairs." Who were they talking about exactly? "But the strangest thing happened when I let him visit Italy for a few days, or at least that was what he said he was doing. He got some kind of scare that's just put him off travelling: I barely got him on the plane out here."

"Speaking of travel," he hadn't seen the British Prime Minister wander up, but the circle expanded to let him in and the President was floundering a bit too deep in the conversation to understand why he was being watched. "I was told the American party was short-staffed again and you-" he was looking at the President "-sent a _replacement_? Is that quite right? Britain was absolutely choked."

And the Brit was speaking nonsense. There was no reason for the Russian to smile like that either, this wasn't a highschool dance!

"I've no idea what you're talking about." Because he really didn't, and he'd sent his people where they were supposed to go. Why was the Canadian Prime Minister looking at him like that?

"We're all in the same position here, there's no reason to talk around the issue." _What?_ "I'd like to have something encouraging to tell Canada when we fly home, he's worried you know." _Who?_

"What are you _talking_ about?" This was only wine, right? No one had slipped some kind of hallucinogenic in their drinks, had they? Just to be safe, and to show how irritating he found all of this, when a server with a silver platter came striding by the President placed his half-empty glass on the tray and let it be whisked off across the floor. "We've just had three days of meetings, what do you expect me to tell you now?"

"Why his brother has been hidding in Memphis for six weeks?" The look he was being given sincerely asked the President whether he was an idiot: lips parted, eyebrows up, a dull look that seemed hardly impressed with anything that had been said so far. The Canadian was down-right _condescending _as he dropped the question.

"What brother? Whose brother?" This was ridiculous. This was absolutely- oh… And just like that the heat under the President's collar disappeared and he felt himself calming down. In fact, he found himself break into a smile and laugh a little as he pushed a hand back through his short hair just to show how silly he felt.

"I get it, I get it, wow. You certainly know how to target the greenhorn." It took a special kind of patience and character to tolerate this kind of humility, but he was the junior on the world stage and the President was an excellent sport. "I think I'll go track down my glass. Nice one though, I'll see you at dinner."

He wandered off with a laugh and didn't hear the Canadian whisper "_Did I not sound serious?" _to the rest of the circle.

* * *

**Where did the Spamano come from? The time-skips, mostly. Spain was with him from pretty much chapter 3 until 16, I just didn't show it because this story is plenty long enough and it wouldn't have been anything but fanservice before the fall. After chapter 17 though I did think they needed another scene though, because it was kind of ambiguous.**

**Did the argument work? The last few arguments in Recovery have felt very straw-man-ish, and I hate straw-man fights. They're boring and undercut both characters. Leave a comment below?**

**See you guys soon! I might still update again on Sunday? I'm not sure? I just started chapter 27 today so we'll see.**


	24. Trigger

**Am I Not Human?, Uninstall English Version, HetaOni OST, Shattered, Utopia, Aurora, See What I've Become.**

**Second longest chapter here you go!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Trigger

More than pain and more than fear, it was the constant sting of need.

Need that should have been going away, and yet wasn't. Need that should have given way to aid and comfort, but it wouldn't.

He could feel himself slowly beginning to hate the need, because he was beginning, slowly, to give up the fear of it.

Just keep those faces away, he'd thought. Just focus on the food and the water and the shelter and the voices he knew and the faces he never saw, and the need would go away. Just stay safe and warm and protected and quiet and it would all just go far, far away, but it hadn't. The need wouldn't leave, and the need kept feeding the pain.

He could feel himself, slowly, beginning to hate the pain.

"Breathe, just breathe through it…"

He could feel himself, slowly, beginning to hate having all of this around him. The hurting and the worrying, the complete dependence and the way he knew, just knew, that if he were left alone the way he sometimes wanted, the dream would end and he'd be right back where he'd started. But if he had to stay with them, if he had to keep Seborga from going home or keep Vatican in their house, then he would end up causing more harm than good.

He'd figured this dream out, finally, so at last he understood it. He was being made to choose: cling to dependence or wake up alone. Suffer with the hate and the need or wake up to the fear and the pain. He was never going to win this battle, there wasn't enough hate to give him strength or pain to make him stay. Someone else would have to make the move for him, someone would have to be the trigger to wake him up this time, he couldn't do it himself.

If only it was a mystery trying to figure out who would be the one to set it off. How long could he keep hiding like this before one or the other barged in to destroy him?

"Here, rinse." Seborga handed him a glass of warm water, and he just couldn't tell him that the retching and heaving weren't coming from nausea, it was just the effect on this body from need and pain colliding. His brother ran one hand back through his hair again, and he felt his sore body cooperate and sink down to the bathroom floor so he could rest on his knees.

Swish and spit, because he just couldn't think of a way to signal for 'cold' without using the same sign Seborga already knew for it. This was one of the problems he just kept having. A language of signs wouldn't help him, so he refused to develop one no matter how frustrated and downright annoyed he knew Seborga kept getting.

He was good with languages, he'd always been good with codes and constructions. He could build a vocabulary of gestures and symbols if he wanted to, but he was completely against the idea.

It was the same way how he was perfectly capable of holding a pen and scrawling a few words, even if his penmanship had deteriorated from lack of use, but he wouldn't do it.

He just wouldn't do it.

"Are you okay?" No, but he didn't bother shaking his head, there was enough wrong that he never gave the answer anyone wanted. Standing carefully with Seborga there to help him, he wiped his mouth off on his wrist slowly and heard the toilet start up with a roar. He was tired again… "I'll go call and say you can't come."

No, and this time he reached out to snag Seborga's sleeve when his brother tried to turn and leave. It wasn't rhetorical this time, his brother had only made a statement but he disagreed with it. They were going.

"Do you feel ill again?" No, he wanted Seborga to know not to make that call. He watched the way his green eyes focused and then darkened a little, a tense little puff of air escaping through his full lips before he shook his strawberry blonde head quickly. "Are you sure? You don't look well, we can go tomorrow."

Today. He wouldn't feel any better tomorrow, he wouldn't get away from the need or the pain or the anger if he didn't do something soon. He had to do _something._

He had to be honest with himself though, every time it came to opening a door or stepping across a threshold, he had to prepare himself for what was about to happen. He had to be completely prepared, as soon as he began to shift his weight and swing forward, for the dream to end and reality to come crashing down on him. He'd stopped fearing when he passed through doorways inside the house, which he knew was a dangerous lull to fall into, but he couldn't hold onto the fear anymore. It was exhausting, and it obliterated what little energy he had when he tried to maintain it. If it all ended when he moved from the den to the kitchen, or the hall to his bedroom, then he doubted he would even be afraid: he'd only feel sad.

Going outside was not the same thing, not yet. He had finally managed it when Romano left the last time, because he expected every time to be the last time. Even if Romano always told him how long he would be gone for and when he would be back, he struggled to believe him. He had to say goodbye to Romano every time, because although he knew how long, he just couldn't accept everything he was told. He trusted his brother to be sincere and mean what he said, but he couldn't just blindly believe that everything Romano said would come true…

He didn't fear for San Marino, Vatican, or Seborga the same way, but they weren't victims. They'd never been targets, they wouldn't be hurt or attacked like that, he couldn't conceive of it. But Romano? There was a target painted on his back and explosives wired through his clothes. He couldn't handle thinking about Romano being anyplace where he couldn't try and keep him safe.

But he also couldn't keep him in the house, this dream didn't work like that.

Seborga didn't approve of them leaving. Maybe it was a subconscious warning that this was a mistake, that this would be the time that everything fell apart. The dream would end and he'd be back where he'd started, and it would all have been for nothing, over and over again in a cycle of neverending dreams. So he buttoned up his jacket and carefully tied his own shoes, picking up the stress ball his family wanted him to use to exercise his stiff and sore left hand. He squeezed it tight in his hand and let the pain lance up his arm to his elbow. It wasn't even a real pain anymore, really just a bone-deep ache that sank into the flesh and wouldn't let go.

He just squeezed and he squeezed and he waited for Seborga to pen a note to papa telling him where they'd be if he came by the house before they returned. He watched him clip a piece of tape and brush his thumb over the clear adhesive to stick it and the letter to the mirror hanging in the hall, and he-

Sound, noise, an echoing tone over and over again-

-a bell, a distant chime, a terrible ringing from nowhere and everywhere and-

-this was it, the end; the collapse of the dream the swing of the pendulum the blood on the walls and the contract and the floor slanting down and down into an unseen dark with white florescent lights and everything so perfectly, perfectly, perfectly _cold, and-_

And he screamed.

* * *

Seborga couldn't believe this. He just could not comprehend this moment.

"I could actually kill you right now."

"I-Is he alright?"

"Does he look alright? _Get out!_" Seborga just- he couldn't- These idiots!

"W-We're sorry, but-"

"_Out!_"

He bellowed the word back over his shoulder, but Seborga couldn't take his hands off his brother right now, if he did he'd throttle at least one of the Micro-nations scrambling to get out of the house. It was bad enough they'd rung the doorbell, but at Veneziano's scream they'd just barged right inside!

"Veneziano- Veneziano look at me." The bell had shattered his composure, it had tilted his entire world to the point where everything keeled over with a great big crash. He was better about the phones, and knocking on doors, and even little dings from the computer were tolerable, but he heard the doorbell so rarely that- "Breathe, breathe deeply now, you're okay, I'm right here." Having the door burst open was something else completely.

He couldn't take shocks like that, and this one had sent him stumbling back until he hit the stairs where he was still sprawled. His eyes were wide and terror-struck, as blind to Seborga's face as he was deaf to his voice. He hadn't reacted to something like this in weeks, he'd been doing so _well _and-

And those _idiots _just had to barge in and ruin everything!

"Please calm down, please, please, look at me…" He'd heard Sealand's voice and seen Hutt River's indigo cape, so those two were dead as soon as he could… just… "Look at me…" Make it stop… "You're staring through me, no. Stop it…" Come _back_.

Seborga had both hands holding his brother's face, Veneziano's brown eyes staring right through him like he didn't even know he was there. His rigid fingers were locked around Seborga's wrists. He was struggling to breathe and there were tears glossing his eyes. He was a terrifying world away with no sign that he was coming back…

"_Please… _ Feliciano please…" Touching their foreheads together, he could feel the trembles and shakes so strongly now. Seborga was completely aware of the pain in his brother's gut that kept stopping him from calming down, and he just wanted to fix it, but how?

"I want my brother back…" he whispered, closing his eyes and trying to hush the terrified gasps. Veneziano was trying to rock himself, but it wasn't working. "We're both tired, Feliciano. I know you're so, so tired… but just come back." He was never going to be the same again, and that was okay. He'd changed after Holy Rome had died in France's wars, he'd changed after unifying with Romano, he'd changed after the Great War, and after the Depression, and after the Second Great War, and after the Economic Miracle. He'd changed again and again and again, they all had. Nations _changed_, and that was okay. "Just stay here…"

_Come back…_

"_-'salla-"_

What?

A breathless sound, something he barely heard through the gasps and strangled whimpers. Opening his eyes again, Seborga found his brother still watching him blindly, his tears slipping free and streaking down his face.

"Salla?" He repeated quietly, his mind spinning. Sahara? Allah? What was he- No, Veneziano shook his head, his teeth clenched behind his stretched lips, and he waited to see if his brother would, maybe, say something else. "_Feliciano…_"

Veneziano sucked in a breath, choking on it as he pulled the air into his lungs and then pushed it out, his throat closing awkwardly around the sounds. He blinked repeatedly and his teeth gnashed at the still air between them.

"I-It's all a- a-" Breathe, breathe, oh how he just wanted to hush him and make him calm down first, but if Veneziano was calm then he wouldn't _speak…_ "-a _**dream**__…" _

Seborga sat there for a moment, they both did. What was he supposed to say to something like that? A dream? What was? Did he mean this? Did he think all of this was just another long, terrible illusion? What was that kind of confession supposed to mean: a dream?

His brother pulled his hands away and wrapped his arms around himself tightly, gritting his teeth as he was assaulted by pain all over again. It wasn't right for him to keep feeling this way, the heaviest work was done now; he shouldn't still have been crippled like this. Seborga refused to let go of him, but when Veneziano bowed his head sharply the younger brother pressed his face down into his sibling's auburn hair. His mind was spinning, but instead of staring blankly at the steps leading up, he closed his eyes and spoke in a hushed whisper:

"Tell me my name." He placed a kiss in Veneziano's coarse hair and waited. He weathered through the sound of his gasps and painful groans, his hands still fixed to the sides of his head so he could hold him close without actually _holding _him. "My name, brother, say it to me."

"_Se…" _His voice was rough with disuse, calloused like the hands he'd brought home with him after months of harsh labour. "_S-Sebo-"_

"Not that name," Seborga hushed, kissing his forehead this time and listening carefully to the shuddered breaths. He didn't want his nation name; not the Principality of Seborga, not a district in the former Republic of Genoa. He didn't want the names of the monks who had found him or the title "Castrum Sepulcri" Papa and Holy Rome had given him. "What's my name, Feliciano? You know the last one is Vargas, so tell me my name…"

Silence answered him, but it was struggling, painful quiet punctuated by more gasps and harsh breaths. He just wanted to wrap his arms around his brother, but he knew better, and he placed their heads cheek-to-cheek so Veneziano could rock his aching body back and forth on the step, trying to mitigate the damage assaulting his core.

"_Se_…" Try again, keep trying, Veneziano, he'd make the connection if he- "Se… Seba- a- sti-?"

"Sebastiano?" A good guess, he kissed his brother's cheek and winced when Veneziano violently jerked away. He let go so he didn't feel like he was being fixed in place, and the first thing his brother did was search for eye contact. Seborga tried to smile, and then he shook his head. "Try again."

He was pale again, teeth clenched and left arm pulled tight against his body with the right wrapped around to protect it. The fear was choking him, but his eyes just kept moving over the younger brother's face, taking in every little detail. He looked at the dull grey-green paint on the walls and down to the almost blue wood floors beneath Seborga's knees, soaking in the colours before he stitched his lips closed and opened his throat around a weak nasal sound:

"Mm…" He was already starting with the wrong letter, but Seborga let him try, hands on his brother's arms and rubbing gently trying to help. "Ma…" He just had to breathe… "Mar-arce-" he gasped again to fight through the pain, "-cello…?" Marcello was a very nice name.

"If this is your dream, Feliciano, then you can guess my name, right?" But only if it was a dream. If human names were so easy to guess then it wouldn't have taken a contract with the devil to bring twelve of them to light. They could sit here together for hours and his brother wouldn't be able to just _'guess'_ the answer, but if it were a dream, it would come quickly.

"Gio-ovanni."

This was not a dream.

"Gia-Giacomo." No. "Marco." Try again.

And again and again, because his voice became a little stronger every time he made himself use it. It was still husky and dry, still broken and stiff, but it was his voice, and Seborga's ears swallowed the sound like precious water in a silent desert. He knew what he was doing, and when he saw the irritation sting his brother's face under the fading cloud of pain, he knew he was making the right choice.

"Do you give up?" Veneziano's stern look, wet eyes glaring and scarred lips pursed, told him no. "You never quit, Feliciano." But… Just with the way he kept searching like that, kept staring and refused to look away again… Seborga did his best to keep smiling as he voiced a painful question: "Do you… really hate everything this much?"

Why wouldn't he? He was a shadow now, a shell. It was alright for nations to change, but this was too much change, and there was no way to say it was worth it either. His smile was harder to keep up just thinking about it, his eyes… That stern look on Veneziano's face faded slowly, almost like he was surprised.

"I don't… know how to make you believe this is real." Was he afraid to wake up, or was he struggling to get out? "You have every reason to be upset. None of this was fair, no one deserved what happened." But how did you fix something after it was over? Romano was trying, he was pouring every bit of himself into anything that would make the pain go away. "I just… I know it's not enough to say we're trying, but-"

His throat was starting to tighten and there was a heavy thickness running down from his tongue, choking him, drowning the words. He was staring at Veneziano's chest instead of looking at his eyes anymore, still scared to let go of him but worried now that if he kept touching him, he'd make things worse. There was this horrible kind of hurt building in his chest, squeezing his lungs and causing a rough burn to prick his eyes. His brother didn't think any of this was real anymore, he was so hurt he'd rather it all just be a dream.

He felt a warm touch on his face and looked up, surprised by the callouses that brushed against his cheek. He was kneeling on the floor and Veneziano had lowered himself so he was sitting on the bottom step in front of him, feet on the floor and knees up high because his legs were too long to sit comfortably. He was crying again and it made the pain in Seborga's chest squeeze tighter, trying to choke him.

"I'm sorry- nothing bad happened to me." And yet here he was, sitting here feeling so miserable and upset. "I shouldn't be sad, I'm sorry," but he was, and he was hurting because if he could be mistaken for a mere figment then that meant he wasn't helping. "I… I think my friends are still outside," he had to choke on the words before he got them out, but between tears and shame at least he didn't have to watch his brother's face anymore. The Micro-nation's withdrew his hands down into his own lap so he would stop touching him. "I'll go get rid of them, at least I can-"

He was about to pull away when he felt himself being drawn in, his balance slipping before he realized, too late to stop, that he was abruptly much closer to his brother than he'd been allowed to come in months. He wasn't even sure if they were really Veneziano's arms around him or not, because it'd been so long since he felt them tangled behind his back, and then they started squeezing him so close he could barely move, nevermind breathe, so he stopped trying to do either.

"_It- hurts." _He clapped his arms around his brother and just held on, because it was a hug, he was being held. For the first time since that sun-drenched summer day with the tall grass and the cool water, he was being _held_.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-" He buried his face in his brother's shoulder, hands gripping his back as the rough weave of the olive jacket scratched his eyes. He felt his words falling apart and just let the broken noises pour into the shaking, pain-wracked body in front of him. He didn't know how to help, he didn't know how to fix it, he didn't-

"_S-Stop the pain-" _How? _How? _He knew they'd been about to go to Romano's office today, maybe that was supposed to be a step in the right direction, but they couldn't leave now. He couldn't take Veneziano outside like this, he could barely imaging taking himself out of doors. He just felt Veneziano cup the back of his head in one hand and hold him so unbearably close, and the way he made it feel so safe just killed Seborga a little bit more inside: he was making his older, tortured brother protect _him _instead of the other way around.

"I want to help you- I'll do anything, please, I-"

"_I want to- to __**stay**__…"_

* * *

Although he was without a doubt their fearless leader, a nation born in the middle of a ferocious war, Sealand had to admit that he wasn't the oldest member of their Micro-nation team. But he was still the leader, and despite Molossia's complaining and Kugelmudgel's silent staring and Wy's absolute refusal to even come along with them to Rome, he's convinced Hutt River and Ladonia that this was without a doubt too important to put off.

Sitting on the stone steps outside Italy's house for an hour had since killed most of his enthusiasm…

"It might be best if we leave." Hutt River suggested slowly, plucking invisible lint off his royal purple cape. The whole thing was bundled up around his arm to keep it off the ground where he was sitting two steps below Sealand.

"…Wanna apologize." Kudgelmudgel murmured, his pale lavender braids knotted behind his head while he tapped slowly on Ladonia's laptop, scrolling carelessly through something. His red hat was tucked down over his ears a little bit, his yellow winter jacket hanging around his knees while the computer was balanced on the railing leading up to the townhouse.

Sealand kept his chin in his hands, elbows on his knees while his jeans and sweater kept him safe from the slight nip in the air. He didn't know why Hutt was wearing such a thick scarf and heavy jacket, but the sandy-haired blonde had interrupted his summer to come here so maybe that had something to do with it.

"_I just sent him another e-mail, and I don't think his phone's on…" _Ladonia's voice crackled through his computer, his bag sitting at Kudgelmudgel's feet since he didn't seem interested in popping out of the machine to sulk with the rest of them. "_Do you think he's that mad at us?"_

"Mad doesn't cut it." Molossia was stalking back and forth along the sidewalk, dragging on a cigarette as he pulled his black jacket closer around him. "He's pissed. We should've just sent him a damned card."

"For once, I think I agree." Hutt sighed, tilting his head back against the cold metal railing behind him and glancing up at Sealand. "I've never heard him shout like that." Seborga usually just smiled at silly things, especially if they annoyed him. Sealand had never heard him raise his voice in anger before, but…

"I think we should still wait though." He said simply, picking his face up off his hands and sitting up straight. "Yes he was upset, but how often do things like this happen?" They couldn't just walk away! Standing up in a rush as he felt the group's energy sinking to an all-time low, Sealand clenched his hands and brought them up smartly to his sides. He was their leader for a reason!

"Come on, everyone! He's opened his own national bank! That just doesn't happen every day, and if he's already announced his secession plans then-"

"My _what?" _Sealand nearly jumped clear out of his skin at the voice, covering his mouth after a most unmanly sound erupted from his throat. His ears started burning, he could feel them, but before he could compose himself Hutt was standing again and Molossia was crushing his cigarette into the pavement. With a yelp and a click Ladonia was shut up inside his laptop again, the Micro-nation's assembling as their fearless leader spun around.

"Seborga!" He looked- pale? Not sick pale, but too pale for normal. He was still much taller than Sealand, and instead of wearing his usual green golf shirt, he had a black turtleneck on to protect himself from the mild Italian winter. Maybe that was why he looked so washed out? His hair was much redder than Sealand remembered, and it had only been a few months so-

Scowling. Why was he scowling? Seborga didn't-

"I told you- I told _all of you_, not to come here to Rome. What was the _first thing_ I said to you?"

"Wait, why are you looking at me!" Sealand shrieked, his eyes snapping away from the scowl when he saw someone moving behind Seborga, but then his attention was whipped right back by his friend storming over the threshold with his fists clenched at his side.

"_Fearless leader, _Sealand!" Seborga's accent was really really strong when he was- "So this is what I get for trusting my friends? You come where you're not wanted, and not invited, and-" Sealand stumbled heavily down the steps, nearly losing himself falling backwards until Hutt was there to scoop him up and set him back neatly on his feet. The urge to dive behind the taller nation was almost too much!

"We understand you're upset-" Hutt cut in, but Seborga shot him down with a sharp gesture and stinging words.

"You be quiet: after him you're the one I hold responsible." Hutt stiffened up straight like a rod, and Sealand found himself losing his voice quickly as the tension kept building and building, Kudgelmudgel shuffling back with Ladonia's laptop and backpack in his hands.

"Well I _never-_"

"Shut up, Hutt." Molossia broke in, huffing and setting a heavy hand on Sealand's head before he could say anything. "You too, shorty. Seborga," up in front of the door, the taller nation pinched his lips and rolled his shoulders back slightly, folding his arms to show how upset he still was behind his scowl. "We're sorry, okay? Italy, we apologize." Italy..?

Rallying his courage, Sealand shuffled back into view again and watched Seborga's angry façade melt. He turned a little to look behind him, and a pale hand carefully reached out and convinced him to unfold his arms so he could hold onto it. He moved like an old man over the threshold and didn't go anywhere once it was done, but Sealand felt a very heavy sadness settle over him as North Italy showed his scarred face in the daylight.

He'd heard about it, but this wilted presence was so much worse in person than what Seborga had described over the phone. Lunch seemed even further out of the question now than it had before when Seborga'd made them sit outside like that.

"Since when have you been so tactful?" Hutt River whispered, running one hand back through his semi-curly hair before looking back up at the steps. Sealand was wondering the same thing, but Molossia's eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses and Seborga and his brother seemed caught up in something under the entryway. He couldn't hear if Italy was saying anything, but their friend was speaking in gentle Italian for a moment before Italy shook his head and Seborga looked back down. He pointed with two fingers to his own eyes and then down at Molossia.

"You're sunglasses are making him nervous, can you remove them?" What a funny thing to ask for.

But Molossia just pulled them off. He didn't even make a fuss or complain about it, something Sealand had never seen before, but today was just all full of surprises, wasn't it? Wy was going to be so jealous she'd missed all of this!

"There," Sealand, Seborga and Wy had all agreed for some time that Molossia's meanness was directly related to those sunglasses. England had probably cursed them at some point to turn him into a nasty cad, but once they were off he seemed far less threatening and a lot less abrasive. "Now are you gonna let me explain why we came here?"

"You said something about secession…" Was North Italy able to keep standing like this? He looked like he was leaning on Seborga a little for support, which was bad, almost as bad as Seborga tossing the words out like a question.

"You… don't know?" Kudgelmudgel never spoke up very loudly, his voice was as soft now as it ever was. He was making more noise drumming his fingers over Ladonia's laptop than he did when he actually used words. "Did you forget?"

"You don't just forget something like that," Hutt scolded, but it was gentle and Sealand felt concern starting to nip at him. He wanted to say something, but Hutt beat him to it with his funny accent: "When was the last time you spoke to your boss?"

The brothers both looked surprised, or maybe confused was a better word, and then turned to look at one another. They didn't seem to know what to say to that, and it was Seborga who sort of half shrugged and then looked back down at the rest of them.

"A few weeks, perhaps? The President has been busy travelling so he-"

"No, not his boss!" Sealand piped up, eager to point out that they were all standing out here in the wind when there were probably couches and chairs waiting for them just inside. But they couldn't invite themselves in again; they'd done that once and been locked out here as punishment… "Yours, Seborga. When was the last time you spoke to your Prince?"

"My..?" They were looking at each other again, but North Italy broke eye contact first, lowering his gaze slowly like he'd thought of something. He carefully lifted one hand up to touch his own right side, and Seborga watched him before the Micro-nation suddenly went stiff and sucked in a sharp breath.

"Seborga?"

"No- no, it can't be something I did…" They were still holding hands and when Seborga tried to twist away, Italy held on and raised his other hand to touch and try and calm his brother down. Sealand felt the sweet news they'd been bringing curdle into sour anxiety, because not only was Seborga confused, now he looked scared. "Molossia what's happening?"

Oh, sure, ask Molossia. It wasn't like Sealand was their leader or anything.

"According to Hong Kong, you submitted an application for your own bank last week." And they didn't mean a new branch of one of Italy's banks, since that would never have even shown up on Hong Kong's financial radar to begin with, but a legitimate, independent bank. Things like that took an incredible amount of capital to start, especially since Seborga wasn't opening a private company, he was establishing a _national bank._ "We went looking for you at your house to congratulate you, and that's when we found out you've got something else planned in the next few days." And they all knew what it was, but were they supposed to say it in front of Italy?

"Planned what?" Seborga's voice sounded so faint that Sealand really couldn't believe he was lying to them. The thought had briefly crossed his mind; Seborga was old, he knew how to lie, he'd survived as a very small piece of territory for a very long time, and that often required playing larger neighbours against each other. Between all the violence and natural disasters, it was terrible but it would have made sense for him to turn on North Italy.

But was that really happening? He looked like a breeze could come by and knock him over, and Sealand recognized now that it wasn't North Italy clinging to him for support, it was the Micro-nation clenching their hands together so hard their arms were shaking.

"I'm not planning anything. I haven't been home in months, I can't even remember the last conversation I had with my boss." Could someone like them afford to be so negligent? "Stop it with the suspense already, just tell me what you heard."

Sealand looked back at Molossia because he'd apparently been selected as speaker for today, but without his sunglasses on the black-haired nation was suddenly wearing a very vulnerable expression. He had such soft green eyes, and they just looked so sad.

"We heard that there's going to be a referendum on Monday, and if it passes you're going to officially secede from Italy." Seborga… He took a breath and all of the sudden looked like he was about to scream. "There're plans for your own bank, a police force, probably your own schools-"

"_I'm fifteen kilometers and three-hundred people-" _He wheezed the words out, barely holding enough air in his lungs to stand straight. Italy was right there to place a hand on his chest, moving it to his shoulder where he rubbed back and forth trying to steady the Micro-nation.

Secession was not the same thing as independence. Secession meant an end to Italian taxes and laws, no more citizenship or public programs. Seceding meant he'd take his people out of the system completely and become his own complete nation. Seceding meant openly challenging the Italian government, something Italy's human masters would have to address directly, not passively and with a blind eye the way they had for years.

"Your prince has claimed more." Kudgelmudgel practically whispered the words, and Seborga was so dumbstruck Italy didn't even look at him in confusion, just concern. "More land, I mean. More people." Sealand didn't have it in him to reveal that the referendum included almost ten times what the Prince of Seborga traditionally claimed for the Micro-nation. It wouldn't just be the town of Seborga breaking away, but several other tiny villages, sections of the Italian motorway, and Sealand couldn't think up the map clearly enough to figure out if the nearby city of San Reno would be effected too.

"I'm not leaving the Republic." Seborga said the words in a breath and then turned straight to this brother, practically ignoring the rest of them with that terrified look on his face. His eyes were wide and he really _was_ pale now, his voice trembling as he spoke. "I'm not. I swore to Romano I wasn't going to leave, and I meant it, and I still mean it, Veneziano I'm not leaving you!" Somewhere in there Seborga slipped into Italian, and if it wasn't Italian exactly then it was close enough that Sealand had to struggle to pick out most of the words. North Italy was just quickly nodding his head though, showing how much he understood as he eased both his hands up and down in the air trying to communicate calm.

"Can humans just make a decision like that without consulting us?" Hutt whispered his question in a low voice, turning his head to look at Molossia while Sealand remained tight between the two of them. "He has no idea, this-"

"They can in a war." Sealand murmured, because he knew the answer, because he'd been born in a war zone. "If the human is strong enough then they can make any decision they want." But normally they didn't, because normally they couldn't. Kings and Bishops didn't really have the wide-spread power they once had, there were too many checks and balances and parliaments and councils in their way now, but those could be brought down with or without the nation's consent.

"_I asked for my name and my prince and you both let me do that! I'm not betraying you now! I swear I meant everything I-_"

"Shh, _shhhh…_" North Italy wasn't speaking, but he touched Seborga's face as the Micro-nation lost his composure. There was so much worry pulling on his scarred lips and dark eyes that Sealand had to look away again. He didn't see how North Italy managed it, but he got Seborga to turn around and hurry back into the house, he probably even told him to go call his boss.

It left the five of them standing there in awkward silence. When Sealand looked up again Seborga's older brother was watching them all very carefully. It was like he didn't know what to do about their presence, because he didn't quite trust them.

"Can we come in, please?" Kudgelmudgel whispered, Ladonia's laptop held tight against his chest with the ginger's backpack sitting over his shoulders. "We had to come, we didn't know what was happening. He's our friend." They'd wanted to congratulate him, not frighten him away and cause a scene like this. They'd thought North Italy had _agreed_ to let Seborga have more freedom, or to recognize him as a fully independent state instead of just a pseudo-state hovering around inside his borders.

This was supposed to have been _fun._

Hutt stood up straight and slowly walked up to the steps again, ascending them gracefully before coming to a full stop in front of North Italy where he was still standing in the doorway. It was very, very rare for any of them to deal directly with nations other than the ones whose territory they were born from, but Hutt seemed confident as he cleared his throat softly and spoke.

"I am the Principality of Hutt River, and I formally request your permission to help look after my friend, the Principality of Seborga." Oh…

The silence was long and tense, but it wasn't until Hutt lifted his eyes from where they'd been pinned on Italy's shoulder that the larger, stronger nation pursed his lips and actually seemed to consider the request. He wasn't blocking the door, but it was his house, and he was standing half over the threshold without inviting them in or telling them to leave.

Finally North Italy took a breath, but instead of speaking he just gave a slow nod and gestured with one hand for Hutt to step inside. The tall Micro-nation was barely out of sight before Kudgelmudgel ran up the steps and stopped in exactly the same place in front of Italy.

"Former Republic of Kudgelmudgel," he said softly, but quickly. His German accent got in the way a little bit and made Italy tense up slightly, but he didn't react. "Um, what he said, because he's my friend." Another pause, although not as long this time, and North Italy nodded again. Kudgelmudgel made to step in and then stopped himself, quickly holding the laptop out in both hands for the host nation to see.

"Ladonia too, can he come?" North Italy just looked confused now, waving his hand to get Kudgelmudgel inside.

Sealand didn't know why his feet felt so heavy, but Molossia made it up the steps before he could even fathom moving forward. He heard the land-locked nation struggle to get past the "_I am-_" part of introducing himself, but then North Italy cut him off with one dry, raspy breath:

"American?" Molossia did have an American accent, but Sealand felt ice-cold as Molossia stood there gaping like a fish. America had been such a big jerk to the world lately, would North Italy bar him just because of the association?

Clearly not, because without even taking his name or letting Molossia ask permission, he nodded again and dropped his eyes so he didn't have to watch the fourth Micro-nation enter his house.

Sealand couldn't walk. He felt like he was anchored to the concrete sidewalk as surely as he was bolted to the sea floor. North Italy just stood there without saying anything, maybe he was waiting for Sealand to start moving, but he just couldn't make himself climb those three little steps to get up to the door. Sealand didn't know what he intended to say when he opened his mouth, but Italy was watching him cautiously.

"M-My name is…" Sealand, Sealand, Sealand. He was- "Peter- Peter Kirkland, sir."

The audacity of his own words made him want to crumble into the ocean and fade away forever. He didn't even have the presence of mind left to slap a hand over his mouth and nose to shut himself up. Italy was looking at him, but he had no idea what that expression on his face was supposed to mean. Was he mad? Surprised? Confused? Was Sealand going to be booted so far out of Italy he'd miss the North Atlantic completely and wind up visiting Iceland?

"Y-You…" Oh no, he was still talking so shut up, shut up, just shut up! "You rescued my brother-" he couldn't believe he was saying this _he was not supposed to be saying this!_ "Please- please let me help yours…?"

Sealand had never seen Italy _angry._ He didn't think anyone had, really, he couldn't imagine anyone who could cause that kind of reaction in him. Italy was the laughing nation, the happy nation, the lazy and cowardly and fun-loving nation. It was like how Seborga never got mad at anything, except North Italy took that care-free nature even further to the point where he never even sniped back or made a clever comment about anything.

Sealand had never seen either of them make a fist before, or clench their teeth before, or get so angry they had to close their eyes to keep their composure before. He'd been worried enough by Seborga doing it, but when North Italy bowed his head and stood stock-still trying not to move one way or the other under the doorway, he felt like he'd just traipsed across a very dangerous line.

North Italy pulled a long, hissing breath in through his teeth and forced his left hand to uncurl slowly. He let that arm swing across his body and then sweep slowly inside the house, a gesture for Sealand to come inside and join the others. He kept his head down, he kept his eyes closed, he kept rigid and focused, and when Sealand took too long to accept his permission the scar-faced nation turned on his heel and marched straight inside.

He left the door open like a black gate leading out of the cold and into the anxious environment inside. With him gone it then took every ounce of fearless leadership Sealand had to mount those steps and follow.

When he walked inside Sealand understood that they'd each accepted North Italy's condition: if anything bad happened to his brother, it was going to come down on them all.

-.-

* * *

**And, um, that's not exactly how I thought this would go but at least we're keeping to the plot this time. Sebubu is too precious for this world, and this whole chapter is why.**

**Review! I'll see you guys next week!**


	25. The Principles of Seborga

**Aurora, See What I've Become, The Game Has Changed, Birth of an Idea, Starvation, False King, Am I Not Human?, Fatal Fury, Archangel, Stand My Ground, Memories.**

**Still a bit rough, but it does its job.**

**Final Loop hit 60 favourites today! Thank you very much for your continued support, it means a lot to me.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

The Principles of Seborga

"Seborga, slow down." This was what Romano had been dreading since he'd first been told there was a conference all the way in Asia. God forbid it be in Istanbul, or Paris, or Cairo, or anywhere within six hours travel from Rome. No, his first international conference had to be in fucking _China. "_I said slow down, are you alright?"

"_Please come home!" _And stop crying, oh God, why was he crying?

"I will, just talk to me."

"_I have to go back to my village. I have to stop them before they do something terrible!"_

"Okay, but just calm down." If he had to go home then go back fucking home, it wasn't that big a deal. Vatican was right there in Rome, he could be convinced to stay with Veneziano for a day until Romano arrived back tomorrow. What was going on?

"Seborga, just tell me what's happening; are you okay?" He wanted to ask if Veneziano was the one in trouble, but somehow that felt like it would short-change the panic screaming through the phone line. Seborga wouldn't do anything that might threaten or harm their brother, whatever was happening had to be effecting just _him_. "Seborga?"

His plane wasn't leaving until tomorrow morning, the delegate's dinner was still carrying on in the next room, and Romano had only ducked out to take this call. He'd stuck by his boss's side for almost everything after his last conversation with Spain, he hadn't even been there for the throw-down between the Spaniard and France. He'd hoped that maybe he could sneak in a calm conversation with someone, anyone, at the banquet, but that was just not going to happen.

"_I'm just waiting for Papa to get here and then I'm leaving." _Answer him, damn it. "_Just please come home as soon as you can. I'd take him with me but I think that would be too much for him."_

"Seborga!"

"_Luca."_ W…What? There was a quick sigh and a nervous laugh through the phone, Seborga's voice fading rapidly before it came back slowly. "_I… I was trying to calm him down earlier, so I… But, Luca. My other name is Luca."_

Just hearing the words made his blood start to freeze, and Romano found himself staring at the wall without actually seeing it.

After decades of speedy travel being half the world away had lost its impact on him, but now he could feel it again. He could feel how far away from home he was, how foreign the materials used to raise this building were, how the filtered air didn't smell right, how the spoken words didn't sound the way they should. His brother was speaking to him in simple, standard Italian, and Romano could barely hear him over the trill of super-sonic wave lengths and satellite stations hurtling around in space.

"_I'm sorry."_

Seborga hung up on him and South Italy was too many thousands of miles away to bring him back.

* * *

Four months was enough time to bring a nation's infrastructure back to life. Not all of it was finished yet, there were still thousands of miles of roads left to repave, and millions of yards of train tracks to straighten and reconnect. That wasn't even counting the vehicles themselves that had to be rebuilt and replaced to run on them, but after four months of reconstruction, transportation across North Italy was possible.

Seborga wanted to go alone, but Veneziano wouldn't let him. Leaving the house and leaving Rome were two completely different things though, so when Seborga couldn't get hold of his boss after an hour of calling every number or neighbour he could think of, his brother pointed sharply at Hutt River, Molossia and Sealand and gestured for them to leave the house with the fourth Micro-nation.

He was still too irritated with them to go along with the idea, but Veneziano was firm. When Papa stumbled into the house in confusion after another phone-call summoned him to the house, the decision was finalized. Annoyed but anxious to get home, Seborga composed himself after his call to Romano and left Kudgelmudgel and Ladonia behind to explain everything.

A taxi carried them to the airport, because Seborga wasn't willing to waste an entire day on the trains up to the French boarder. As soon as they arrived in Departures he almost told the three of them to get on another plane to anywhere else in Europe, but the anxiety of not hearing back from anyone in his government kept him quiet.

Why wouldn't anyone contact him? If they were getting ready for these kinds of changes then they should have been _looking _for Seborga, not turning off their phones and refusing to talk to him. He spent the entire plane ride in an exhausting fit of nerves just waiting until he could turn the device in his hand back on. He didn't even pay attention to his friends when they dared murmur quietly to one another.

This was ludicrous. Seborga wanted recognition, he'd always craved it, but this was the wrong line to cross and the worst _time_ to try it. Some referendum wasn't going to make him a nation, it was going to anger the townships across the local area and send them to their elected government. Romano could explain and Seborga could apologize all they wanted, but if the humans in charge of the Italian government decided enough was enough, then the Principality couldn't say for sure what the outcome would be. His brothers' boss ignored him most of the time, he didn't know what he'd do if the President or the Prime Minister moved from indifference to anger…

It was terrible, waiting to hear back from someone.

But it was worse having no answers at all.

* * *

Frustrated. Worried. Upset. Disturbed. Irritated. Suspicious. Angered. Cautious. Annoyed.

Helpless.

There were many more words he could think of to identify this, this feeling, this agitation (agitated!). He could think of them in many languages as well as none. They were almost overwhelming (overwhelmed), and the only thing which stood to make them worse was inactivity (useless).

It was physical: burning ears, tight throat, stinging eyes, heated back. His stomach kept rolling, the acids hissing and bubbling enough to try making him sick again. It was insulting (insulted) when the pale Micro-nation from Vienna tried helping him into the bathroom because he said he looked too pale, but he resisted (resistant).

He was so _sick _(ill) of feeling this way!

"Veneziano?" Papa tried to help, bless him he tried to help, but there was no aid for this. The aid wasn't working, the pain wasn't subsiding, and the heat of all this burning anger (outraged) and choking hatred (hateful) was killing him (dying). "Where are you-?"

It was actually, physically, killing him.

"Italy? Is there something upstairs that you-?"

He shut himself in Romano's office and refused to open the door. He'd had enough of dying.

* * *

They had to fly to France's city of Nice because it was the closest airport, and again, Seborga almost left his friends behind. Hutt River and Molossia both had questions, but Sealand took advantage of his age and experiences from the Second World War to answer most of them. Yes, Micro-nations could secede like this, and yes they were perfectly capable of doing so either by force or through more peaceful methods. Sealand was thinking specifically of moments during the dissolution of the British Empire, like when Pakistan had split from India, and Molossia had quietly likened it to events in the Americas like the formation of America's states and his wars with Mexico and Canada.

This was not the same thing, but Seborga couldn't bring himself to say it. The history was different here. The nations who had died for America to rise up in the New World and the independence India and his sister had fought for were not the same thing. North Italy had been more or less whole during Grandpa Rome's time, and then he had fractured into the tens of little republics and principalities that had relegated him to life in the eastern corner of the peninsula. He was "Italia _Veneziano_" for a reason, and Venice was still rubble sinking under the mud of its ancient lagoon.

Seborga was only a very tiny hill in a relatively small commune, but the fracturing had happened before, and he would not let himself act as a catalyst to set it off again. He'd sworn as much to Romano before the catastrophe and he would not let everything his brothers had suffered and fought for to go to waste on his behalf.

They rented a car in Nice and Seborga had never driven across France's territory so fast in his life. He didn't even notice the sign on the highway that indicated Miss Monaco's home coming up to the south, they just sped by it and crossed the border back into Italy.

Something was wrong. Something was actually very, very wrong. It wasn't just a feeling anymore, it wasn't just the silence from home or the spontaneity of everything either. He could feel it in his gut now, not quite the pain Veneziano was suffering with, not the flesh-rendering agony of separation and collapse, no, it wasn't that serious. But he'd felt something like this before, and he knew what this was.

"Are you alright?" Sealand broke the low murmur of conversation with a louder question, and Seborga let his eyes flicker up from the road to the rear-view mirror. "You… seem calmer than before." Pursing his lips as he heard the rest of the talk die down to hear his answer, Seborga went back to watching the curving highway. At the end of the day it didn't really matter how much land a nation had, it was how long you could hold it for and what you did with it in that time.

"My government's been dissolved." He said the words slowly and heard Hutt River take a breath next to him, but remain silent. "It's a bit… numbing." He didn't mean dissolved as in it no longer existed, but his council members weren't doing their jobs: they'd been dismissed for some reason and he didn't understand why.

His mind was very slow about thinking up with answers for it, but there were reasons coming to him. He'd been in Rome for months, never leaving and hardly remembering to check in with his Prince and see if there was anything he needed to do. There never was when he'd remembered, so he'd kept forgetting as a result. Being in his brothers' capital had been overwhelming at first, it was a bit hard to remember who he was sometimes just because the city was so overwhelmingly "Italian".

Rome was the keystone of Italy, without it the North and South would hardly be able to manage as one. A tiny provincial town like Seborga had been slowly losing focus…

This was his fault. He'd been busy, yes, but he shouldn't have let things get out of hand back home. Taking care of Veneziano wasn't as time-consuming now as it had been back when he'd first come home. He could be left alone now, not for more than a few hours, but he could handle being on his own in the house or at least in a separate room. He wasn't so good about preparing meals on his own, but he could cook alongside someone else, and he'd started, hesitantly, to let his eyes wander over the newspapers and journals left by the front door. He was not an infant who required every waking moment of Seborga's time and attention, and so he had no excuse for not having done his due diligence and looked after his affairs at home.

So more than he was irritated at his friends for showing up in Rome and setting off that whip-lash of emotions, he was angry with himself. The sun vanished in the west and Seborga adjusted the headlights on the winding highway in front of them, minding the quiet around him in the full car and the numbness pooling in his gut. It kept getting stronger, and he just couldn't rationalize with himself how he'd let it get this bad.

There was a catch-22 about helping his brothers. This referendum was a joke, it couldn't happen, and where the hell had anyone found the money to fund a legitimate _bank_ in his name? He was too small in size to support himself as a real nation, and as generous as Veneziano could be he would never surrender the kind of territory needed to grow a population and provide for himself. San Marino had won the right in a war against Grandpa Rome to secure himself enough arable land and a stable population to sustain himself. Papa was the heart of the Roman Catholic Church with a network of influence and finance that spanned the globe. Seborga needed Italy to be alright and prosper because he didn't have the financial strength to provide schools, or doctors, or police, or even basics like food and water and electricity for his people.

Whoever had thought up this ridiculous political play was going to find himself dragged out of bed by a very angry Principality. That was what Seborga decided when the highway checkpoint came into view and he turned off into the darkened hills to find his way home. If someone was going to attack his well-being and harass his brother's borders, then they would have to put up with Seborga himself.

The first place to start off was the Stone Palace. He didn't care how tired he was after such a long, full day. There would be plenty of time to sleep _after _figuring out what exactly his prince thought he was doing.

The car whined and rumbled its way up the main road through the township, Seborga breathing a bit easier once he felt himself pass from North Italy into the territory he claimed for himself. The numbness in his fingertips and gut didn't fade, but at least he got to feel that brief flood of endorphins that meant he was back where he belonged. Driving quickly and without fear, it didn't surprise him that his streets were empty in the dark, but everything was… quiet.

"Calm down, I'm sure everything will be fine." He was a small town with a smaller population, it was supposed to be quiet, but not like this. Something was _wrong._ "Seborga." His hands were shaking on the wheel and he tightened his grip trying to stop it, able to forgive Hutt for calling his name like that as it started getting harder to breathe.

"I know, just- we're almost there." He wouldn't drive much further, and as soon as they reached the dark turn in the road towards the palace, he dropped their speed.

The stone palace was the government house where Seborga's councilmen met for important business relating to his health and well-being. It was an old, converted abbey that had been spruced up for tourists and general appeal in the town, and he pulled over just to the side of the road as the three story structure at the top of his hill came into clear sight in the twilight. They were still a good ways away from the building when he stopped, but there was a good reason for it.

He pulled over so far away because he could see the black shapes of three unrecognizable cars in the darkness. They weren't parked there trying to hide in the deep shadows cast by the building's pale body either, they seemed almost comfortably placed on the road. But Seborga couldn't recognize them, and he knew every car in his territory.

That was the benefit of being so small as a nation. With well under five hundred humans to look after, even if Seborga couldn't remember their names, he still knew each and every one of his citizens…

"Those're nice…" Molossia was the one to point it out from the back seat, but at least he had the decency not to sound too impressed or enthusiastic about it. Seborga was thankful for his discretion, and popped his door open before nearly pulling it shut again.

"Stay here," he told them, and when Sealand took a loud breath to argue with him, Seborga spoke right over his protests: "I don't know who's in there, Sealand, and I don't want anyone to get hurt. Just stay out here and I'll come back and wave or something when everything's sorted out." His friends were in no way convinced by this.

"The fact that you're taking this so seriously just makes things worse." Hutt dropped the comment without any fuss, keeping his opinion short and blunt as he glared a little bit under the yellow glow of the car's internal light. Seborga wanted to shoot him down or disregard him, but if he really stopped for a moment and thought about it, Hutt's words made sense. He was taking this seriously, but he couldn't say _too_ seriously because the numbness wouldn't let him write this off as nervous fussing.

"Just please stay here, alright?" They could do that much for him, couldn't they?

They had to.

* * *

"_You said to just ask if I needed anything?"_

"_Yes, within reason."_

"_A seat on the next plane from here to Central Europe. Charter one if you have to, just do it __**now**__."_

It took Hong Kong approximately four hours to fulfill (South) Italy's sudden request, because the last commercial jet from his airport departed approximately ten minutes before Italy came up behind his chair at the banquet dinner and asked for a seat on it. At least Italy had the courtesy to quietly inform his President of whatever was happening before stating that he was leaving as soon as Hong Kong could arrange it, but that had only served to send a flutter of conversation through their bosses. The Italian President had departed half-way through the third course and hadn't come back.

"Did Seborga say anything else?" A private jet was chartered, which wasn't so much difficult to do as it was hard to explain. The human members of the Italian party still intended to leave at a decent hour, but at almost three in the morning Hong Kong and Italy were making their way across the black tarmac in the brisk winds whipping the city. Weather conditions were not ideal, but the European wasn't about to be swayed.

"Don't you Micro-nations have your telepathy thing? And no." They had cell-phones, but Hong Kong wasn't privy to much communication from beyond China's Firewall. Ladonia was blacklisted, as were most of the other Micro-nations. It was frustrating. "If he left when he said he would then either they've just arrived in town, or they're on the highway."

Italy was going to be at least sixteen hours behind his brother's arrival the north-western territory. There was no way to just "go faster" and speed across the planet: the distance was just too vast.

The two of them in were hunched against the wind in their long jackets, and had to stop when a foreign vehicle shone its lights across the tarmac and roared up through the incoming storm. Italy swore openly, but Hong Kong tried to hold his in as a standard military jeep rolled to a stop between them and the revving jet.

"You _told_ him where to come?" Italy seethed, and Hong Kong straightened up at the scoff.

"You have to fly across his territory to reach Europe, how did you think you were getting home?" Hong Kong was a city, not his own country. Flying from his home to anyplace else in the world required China's permission, even if he usually granted it without a fuss. This time however, Hong Kong hadn't expected him to see the request until later today…

"Leaving without saying goodbye to your host, Italy?" China had changed out of his fancy traditional red outfit from the good-bye banquet already. He didn't usually dress so casually, but he hopped out of the jeep in a black trenchcoat and, from what Hong Kong could see, black runners instead of dress shoes or boots. His long hair was braided behind his head, a thin grey scarf wound around his neck as he gestured to the plane with one gloved hand. He was smiling. "And at such an early hour too."

"I told you I was leaving." He chose to let Italy handle this, there was no point getting in China's way when he was already smiling. "I have a situation back home and I have to go_._"

"Ah, you're so aggressive!" Now China was laughing, and the city-state was less certain about following so closely behind his guest. Italy kept walking until he was almost abreast with China, then he stopped again and did that angry scowling thing with his face. "But what kind of host would I be if I didn't try and find out what was going on with my guest?"

"I'm me and that's the plane I'm getting on. That's what's happening." Italy flung a hand sharply at himself and the jet, just to over-emphasize his blunt words. "Thanks for your hospitality and all that, now will you-?"

"Ah, if your grandfather were here I know exactly what he'd say right now!" Oh, that wasn't what Hong Kong expected to hear. Judging by the look on his face, it surprised Italy too:

"What?"

"I can almost hear him, he'd shout _'Sino, stop wasting his time! You take-a things much too slowly, little boy, hurry it up a bit, ya?'_" The only sound after China's mock-accent was the roaring wind. The weather was turning fouler by the minute as Italy gave a panicked glance at the sky, then he stared back at Hong Kong's boss and fumbled for words.

"Why are you telling me this, China?" The Sleeping Dragon made a point of never mentioning any empire or nation whose time had come and gone. Be it Ancient Rome, the Khemar Empire, or anyone else on any continent, China never spoke of the dead unless he had to. Over the last six months, the personification of North Italy had been added to that list of unspeakable names, but now… "Why now? This isn't a ploy, China, I have to-"

"I know it isn't a ploy, Italy, you're too much like your grandfather to play those sorts of games." Italy was half-way through taking a step when that comment got him under the throat, freezing the European in place. The serious way China's smile fell just made it all the more poignant. "In fact, I don't think I've ever seen so much of Rome in you as I have over the last few months. But he was a soldier and you've always been a tradesman: there isn't one politically savvy bone in your body."

Italy hissed through his teeth and Hong Kong winced on his behalf, because he _was _too easy to read sometimes. He couldn't even play off his reaction as anger, because that exhausted, hopeless kind of hurt that had been following him around like a cloud all week was back again before he could try. South Italy was no statesman, and he never had been.

"So I'm an easy read, fine, now will you just-?"

"Why hasn't the Vatican City State trained you yet?" China went for the throat again, and he did it with his thin brows drawn down and a slow shake of his head in the wind. He was dragging this out in a storm, so either he wanted the weather to ground the plane, or he was looking for something… "He's one of the best speakers in the world. He's the institute that _institutionalized_ rhetoric in your European bubble."

No, he couldn't have known about- maybe he just had an inkling?

"You aren't collapsing," China continued, "you're overworked and out of your depth: it's written all over your face." A face that was so overwhelmed and wide-eyed Hong Kong was convinced Italy was going to start backing up soon. His backbone was broken. "You haven't walked amongst or talked to any of your people outside your office in months, have you? You're completely out of touch with them! What's been keeping everyone in Rome so busy that your health keeps slipping and the Church can't spare a few hours to educate you?"

"I- I…" He could answer that question. South Italy was the only nation with the authority to answer it, but Hong Kong could see just from the way his mouth was hanging open that he had no words. It didn't matter whether he knew what to say or not: he couldn't get the words out.

"I won't let you die the way they did, Italy, but you're making this too easy." China's voice changed and Hong Kong… he didn't quite... know what that tone meant. "If you're wearing yourself out because of Euros and Dollars, then stop waiting for the EU to help you: the most powerful nations on the planet are watching you now, so don't shun us." Italy's economy was still rough and struggling. With the damage to his tourism reputation last year, and the Euro-crisis affecting his debts for the last five years, everything was crippling his efforts to rebuild from the earthquake.

Italy was such a bad investment right now for the Union that personal debts between Nations probably weren't going to matter come the Spring Quarter, and without Europe only two other world economies would have the power to help him. One was temperamental America, the other was Hong Kong's big brother China…

"China, I-" Italy had been good about avoiding too many conflicts or getting bullied into a corner, but China had planned this approach carefully. Either he knew something about Italy's brothers already, which was unlikely but not impossible, or he was making an educated guess and had opened with family just to throw him off-balance. Regardless, Italy pulled his phone out of his pocket and it was the weakest way to break eye-contact. Whatever he saw broke him a little bit more though, because he went slack-jawed and just stared at the screen after noticing some kind of message staring up at him. "I have to go."

"Whatever you're hiding, do a better job of it." That was a dangerous warning, especially coming from China… "If I didn't owe you enough already I'd be getting on that plane with you, and you wouldn't-"

"That's right, you _do_ owe me!" Woah- Italy clenched his hand around his phone and looked up with such a furious expression that- "So mark me, China: I have the most powerful nations on earth watching my every move, and if _anything_ happens to my family because you decided to power-play me in a fucking _thunderstorm_ then I'll point them all in your direction! _Move, old man!"_

Hong Kong wasn't sure what to do. The last person to take that tone with China had been America during the war for Korea, and the peninsular nation still suffered every day with the results of being caught between those boasts. China's face was unreadable, his lips pinned in a smile and his eyes open and watching carefully, almost glowing in the ambient light of the airfield and the rumbling jeep behind him.

"Hong Kong!" That was his cue, and with a short breath the city state quickly stepped away from his guest and went to join his brother's side. China didn't even look at him, just gave a short gesture with one hand for him to get in the jeep. Hong Kong didn't argue, not when China was serious like this, and once he was up inside the vehicle he looked back at where the two nations were still staring each other down.

Finally, China shook his head in the harsh wind, and maybe he laughed: Hong Kong couldn't hear anything until his brother lifted his voice over the storm:

"_Just like Rome!_"

* * *

"You've got ten minutes." It took almost twice that long just getting his friends to agree to it.

The air was chilly, but there were still very faint and far off fingers of sunlight teasing the western horizon. Seborga wasn't sure why he'd needed that bit of consent from his friends, but he took it and tried not to look back at the car as he marched off. He walked quickly and tried to fight off the nerves making him tense up, crunching gravel under his shoes and telling himself there was no reason to tread lightly here.

Those cars really were nice though, and as he marched past them Seborga tried not to pay attention to just _how_ nice they were. Sleek and black, new models for sure, and built in his brothers' territory too; not Swiss, German, or French. He brushed close enough by one of them to notice how the only thing marring the metallic black paint was the dust from mountain roads, even the chrome rims were still partially buffed. These weren't the sorts of cars a baker or a farmer would drive, Seborga knew every car in his township and no one could afford something like this.

The prickling down his back faded a little as he ducked under the shadow of the stone palace, his friends finally losing track of him in the night.

The "palace" wasn't very big, but even in the dark the massive flower mosaic in the courtyard caught what light was there and bounced it back at him. There were brick arches, several of them, flanking the bell-tower that had once belonged to the abbey where he'd been born. He could see the faint glow of electric lights, and maybe those were voices hovering quietly in the cold air.

"You there!" _EEK!_

Okay, definitely voices, but not one Seborga expected as the shout hit him. He wasn't slinking around in the dark, not here, not in his first home, but suddenly the idea of being spotted and stopped in the middle of his own courtyard left him too exposed. It took a terrifying moment to find the person responsible, and that was when he realized there were two of them. "This place is closed, go home."

Men. Men who weren't friendly or confused, but who stood there in the dark with judgement on their shadowed faces. They kept their hands in the pockets of the well-made suits framing their large bodies. It frightened him that he could tell that much just by looking at them. These were not small or shy men, they were tall men, confident, almost foreign.

"I'm here to see my prince." Seborga could be confident too, he wasn't scared. Intimidated maybe, but never frightened. "I'm sure he's just inside." The prince didn't actually live in Seborga's town, but he was here now, he knew it, as surely as he knew this courtyard and the stinging nerves in his fingers and running down his sides. Seborga knew his head of state was here.

"Prince?" These men were Italian, just the way one of them scoffed as he strung the words together was familiar: he sounded like Romano. "You mean the mayor? You don't elect a monarch." Painfully Italian. At any other time Seborga would have let the comment roll off his back without comment, perhaps felt bad that it was so hard for him to exert authority, but now was not the time. "Go home, kid."

"I still have to see him." He said the words under his breath because he wasn't here to start a fight, and the way the men stayed by the door was enough of a warning. He started walking again and Seborga wasn't going to back down, this was his home, his government, his-

"I don't think you heard me." The same man took a long step forward,

"He's just a kid." –and Seborga came to a short stop, because when the man's partner spoke up the first one had one elbow bent and his shoulders twisting back. He was reaching for something at his belt and froze like that, and it didn't matter how small a nation he was, Seborga knew that motion: gun.

Expensive cars, tailored suits, southern accents and loaded guns. No, Romano, why were these men here?

"Go home, boy."

The winter air was like ice in his lungs, and this close to the sea nothing ever got that cold. The numbness was moving into his chest, because whatever was wrong kept getting worse.

With a long, slow swallow, Seborga started walking again. They wouldn't shoot a boy, and even if they did: he'd just get back up. He belonged here, this was his place, he'd been born here over a thousand years ago and no two simple humans with orders were going to keep him out.

There was no second draw for the gun, just a hiss and a tsk and a shake of the head before the distance screamed shut between them. He'd been born a monk but Holy Rome had needed knights, and he'd worshiped a God of love but the Church had waged mighty wars. Seborga's strength had wilted for the final time after his brothers' crushing defeat at the end of the second world war, but he could handle two humans, especially ones who wouldn't shoot a boy.

He wished the courtyard were made of sand. He wished he had anything on his person besides a set of keys. He wished it were daylight out so when he pivoted around a hesitant grab, he could see what that face peering at him in the dark actually looked-

-a lunge this time and Seborga's right hand swung around to grab the wrist that came swinging out at him. The man wanted to grab him around the arm and probably shove him, instead Seborga locked his hand around his cuff and pulled the arm past him. The other man stumbled and the nation held his breath, powering the flat of his left palm into the back of the human's elbow. Hong Kong had shown him this, he'd never done it, and the resulting crack and scream of the shattered limb made his stomach curdle and clench in horror.

If his friends were listening then they'd hear the scream. Please let there be no more!

Seborga dropped the arm and immediately took a long, low lunge so his head ducked under the fist that came at him, his knee almost hitting the ground before he came up behind the second human and wished (how he _wished_) there was a longsword in his hands. Instead he grabbed the back of his jacket before the man could spin around, and with a frantic shove the human tumbled over his partner in a furious, screaming heap.

"You little _shit!" _Oh God, there were more: they were calling for help. Seborga spun on his foot and sprinted for the door. More would be inside but he had to get in there!

He slammed his whole body into the wooden door, hand fumbling for the knob before it swung in and he fell inside to the floor. A pair of polished shoes were in front of him and a bullet cracked the stones where he'd just been standing. The gunfire shocked the man in front of him and Seborga didn't even look up: he knew it wasn't one of his people. He scraped his feet across the ground and sprinted inside, shouldering and shoving his way past two more suits.

The palace was small, only a few hundred square feet. One long lit hallway led to a set of administrative offices, he only had so many choices. No bullets chased him but there was shouting, and one wordless scream from deeper inside pulled Seborga as fast as his legs could carry him. He had no escape plan, he had no battle plan, he _had no plan_: he just ran.

He ran until the numbness turned into pain and he came to a skidding halt in front of one door; the administrator's office, the prince's work space. When he twisted the knob it fell open, and he-

_BANG!_

He didn't know who she was. He didn't know her anymore, not with her long red hair hanging over her face and so much red blood splattered across the blue carpet in front of the desk. He didn't know who she was when the hand holding the back of her white jacket let her body hit the floor, chunks of red and white dribbling and falling from what the bullet left behind. Seborga couldn't take his eyes off that body though, not even to count the other men standing around her. He didn't know how many guns were there and he didn't know how many more were coming, he just knew that she was dead.

And he knew this: his boss was screaming in wordless agony, and the Principality felt the cold lip of the gun when it touched his head and the nation's blood joined hers.

* * *

_**Whoops.**_

**Looking for some feedback on the transitions, and how clear the last segment was. Obviously some of it's supposed to go very quickly since it's action, but if it was too confusing then let me know so I can go over it again.**

**Drop a review and I'll see you next week!**


	26. All but Bulletproof

**Fatal Fury, The Lightning Strike, No Turning Back, Starvation, The Game Has Changed, old TMTR playlist because why not? Reanimation tracks. KRWLING, 1stp Closer, P5hing Me A*wy**

**Click-Clock: Unfortunately I can't find a video on youtube with just the song. Does anyone know where I could listen to "Wake Up" by Two Door Cinema Club?**

**I asked and I received! 10 reviews was a big storm for me, so thank you, everyone!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

All But Bulletproof

"_One-One-Two, what is your emergency?"_

"Gunshots! Someone's shooting at our friend- send help!"

"_Sir, please slow down. Where are you?"_

"Top of the hill in Seborga, just off the- _Sealand, wait!_"

* * *

"God, my wife...!" The first thing he could hear... "No, why would you-?" …was sobbing. "Jesus Christ I-"

"You really shouldn't try to bring God into this, your majesty." The second thing he could hear... was a southern accent. Calabrian.

Hearing usually came back first unless you'd drowned, but that happened to him even less than any other kind of death. This time he had been shot, and his hearing came back first as the dark dream-like sleep of death faded and let the Nation-born slip back into the world where he belonged.

First came sound, then came pain.

God never skimped on the pain.

It had not been a long sleep, no more than a few minutes maybe. How could the nation lay dead if the monarch was in danger? And it wasn't just a belief at this point, but a reality. God would not bring him back so soon if there was no danger. God would have let him sleep until the pain puncturing his skull and bursting out through the right side of his face had faded and healed before rousing him from slumber.

Smell would come back later, because breathing was always last, and his heart wouldn't begin yet because his body needed blood and the damage to his head, he knew, was too much.

'_Always listen first.'_ As much as he didn't want it, now was the time when he _needed_ to remember Veneziano's voice... _'Never rush. Your body is weak after you wake up, so all you've really got left is surprise.'_ It had been so... many... centuries, since he'd heard those words. It wasn't something they just discussed at the dinner table.

"I suggest you make your decision quickly, _majesty_, the air is growing stale."

_'Count your enemies and orient yourself, idiot.'_ Romano's voice was a comfort too, actually. It cut through the fear and managed the pain firing back and forth over his shattered skull. _'You almost always get your hearing back first, so just lay there and listen to what's going on around you. If they're smart they'll cut off your head and __then__ you're in shit, but most humans don't think like that.'_

These humans hadn't, they didn't even know what he was: unless his boss had told them? But he was only crying, hardly speaking, he sounded like he was choking on the tears and trying to swallow his voice. He mentioned his wife- the Princess was dead? Oh no...

_'Don't let the paralysis fool you, it always wears off too soon: don't gasp just because you can feel your lungs again.'_ Which he suddenly could, and they _hurt_. _'You have one chance. Don't waste it. Move slowly and-'_

He felt his fingers and he inched them, tip by tip, across the carpet pills, walking them away from his body as the voices kept talking. The coercive, bullying voice of that one man kept going, the others remaining silent around the sobs. That man was standing across the room from the fallen Micro-nation, near the desk, and there was someone else breathing right over Seborga's body. The creak of leather shoes told him the man who had shot his boss's wife was still near the bookshelf at that wall. Without breathing he urged his hand further and further across the bloody carpet until he found- thin, metal, cold: a chair leg.

Good enough.

"You forced our hands in these matters, your highness. My employer is deeply sorry for your loss, but truly you brought this on yourself." The metal was so cold against his fingers. It was good to have his sense of touch back, it something beyond the thrumming pain burning and hissing in his skull. He knew it was bad when he could _feel_ his body repairing itself...

Now don't breathe, just _think._

"Sign here... yes, just like-" With his right hand wrapped around the chair leg Seborga braced his left palm on the carpet next to him. He wasn't prepared to raise his elbow yet but he tensed his left leg, ready to shift his hips and push himself up. He opened his left eye, the only one he had left, and he saw nothing but shadows and red and brilliant florescent light.

Now?

"What is that?" And then came the noise: shouting, yelling, more gun-shots?

_Now!_

There were words spoken, but through the pain and the anger Seborga couldn't hear them. Someone gave a terrified scream as he snapped his elbow up and pushed with his arm, hips shifting so he got his foot under his body and lift himself up. He tightened his grip around the chair and he didn't even know how heavy it would be, he just forced his limbs to act and tear it up off the floor. The weapon followed the turn of his body so it swung around and slammed into the man who'd been standing over him, toppling him with a breathless grunt. One of three.

The Micro-nation went blindly after the next voice: the man at the desk. He lunged for the man with the cold voice, the southern accent, the one with no gun but enough clout, the one who screamed curses for God to strike down the unholy and protect his soul. It was the man whose throat Seborga clawed for because he could feel the burn of a crisis eating away at his gut again, and he could barely breathe, and he wanted this man to _die!_

The screaming hurt, the hands that slapped and struck him hurt, but the way his fingers slipped off skin and tangled in heavy fabrics instead was _frustrating._ He couldn't hold the neck, he couldn't gouge the flesh, he couldn't end the life or stop that noise, noise, noise from the human's foul mouth! He grappled with fabric instead, and when his ringing ears heard clicks and more shouting behind him, he threw all his weight back on one heel.

He spun around and he tore the human with him, just like the chair, and when his world filled with the echoing bang of gun-fire he felt the body he was fighting with convulse violently, and the screams were choked off by the copper stink of blood.

He could taste more blood on his mouth, probably his own, and he could feel it thick and hot down his cheek and curling around his jaw towards his chin. His shirt was warm and heavy with the wet, his head light and senses blasted by the explosions. He couldn't see, his ears were filled with echoes, deaf and blind he let the human he was holding fall to the floor, almost tripping over the body because he knew the next one was-

White noise screamed through his mind and a burning hammer struck him once in the left shoulder, then again in the gut. He fell when a third strike blasted apart his right knee from the side, because he hadn't killed the first human, and they both had guns.

So he braced his weight on his working leg and lunged again, putting all of his strength into clearing the distance over the dead body of his citizen. He hit the wall with both arms instead of the man he wanted caught and hanged, but his hearing recovered just enough to hear terrified male voices before he turned and forced his legs to carry him over furniture.

He couldn't even feel the pain anymore; his body was getting ready to give out again. His heart was burning and any moment it would rend and tear inside his chest. As soon as he fell again these men would do something to damage and harm him even more than they already had, they'd do anything to keep him from getting up again. Unless he eliminated that threat first, Seborga would-

"_Sebo!"_ His hands found another body, but instead of tearing away from him this one wrapped its arms under his. "_Sebo, stop! Enough!"_ Kill it, kill the voice- he wouldn't let them take him! _"It's me! It's over! STOP!"_

Like flesh splitting open under a knife, he felt the fire of his heart ripping open from too much stress and not enough blood. The sensation of his limbs faded and the white noise reverted back into the endless dark.

Seborga took his first breath and died again.

* * *

America knew he wasn't supposed to go hanging out around Washington anymore, at least not the White House where his boss was administrating things, but that by no means meant that he was out of a job. He had a rover on Mars, he had an active movie industry, he had wild-life conservation projects, he had inner-city school programs; America had all kinds of things to keep himself busy.

He also had phone-calls to dodge from the other Nations, and that alone was almost a full-time job.

The only reason he picked up his phone this time was because he couldn't quite remember the last time that Nevada number had shown up on his display. But what were those other funny numbers in front of the code? That was a European sequence…

"Hello?"

"_Do you have any people in Italy!"_ Uuuh, what?

"Hello? Who is this?" The voice sounded familiar, but why the panting? America flicked the mute button on his television, setting aside his plate where his half-eaten lunch had been sitting in his lap. The person was speaking English, but for a moment he almost thought it was Australia?

"_Air Force, Army, Navy- anything! Do you have any personnel left in north Italy!?"_ _North_ Italy? Why was Australia calling him from North Italy on a cell-phone registered to Nevada?

"Who is this and what the hell are you-" crying? This person was so scared they started crying just hearing his voice. He didn't know how to take that, but America stood up in a hurry and marched away from the pictures flashing over his TV screen, swiping his glasses off the arm of the couch and slipping them on as he walked out of the large den in his Tennessee home.

"Whoever you are, just slow down and talk to me."

"_Hutt, gimmie the phone." _That voice was one America almost knew. It was a south-west accent, but it was far away along with- was that a child crying too? Someone else was screaming in the background. "_Hutt!_"

For some reason, America felt compelled to move. There was something wrong about standing still in the middle of his house with so much shouting and screaming warbling through the phone. Padding with socked feet down the warmly lit hall leading away from the den and across the main level, America shuffled quickly into his little home office and immediately went to his laptop.

The early afternoon sun was bright enough that he didn't need to turn on a light, and as the Australian voice gave way to a throaty American drawl, he could have sworn he heard that child wailing _'His head, his head!'_. What the hell was-? Wait.

"Molossia?" He _did_ know that voice!

"_I'm sorry, we shouldn't have called you- we panicked."_ No kidding, he could hear the panic- _don't hang up on him!_ "_Well whaddya want me to do? You can't help us from home!"_ No, but he could figure out what the hell was going on. Where was he exactly? "_A small town in North Italy, look, we're shaken but the police are on their way._" Then don't hang up on him, America was going to stay on the line until someone local got there.

"What happened?"

"_The- there were men with guns, they were all over the place."_ Was anyone injured? _"Them, mostly, but- but one woman, they just…" _Molossia was a tough talker and he could pull his weight in a fight, but he wasn't a killer… _"She's his boss's wife? I think? I don't even…" _Wait.

"Wait. Are you- are you telling me the Italian President's _wife_ was just-?"

"_No! No, not that boss: Seborga's."_ Sebo-? Italy's _brother? "Yes, he- look it's too much to explain right now, what are you doing?" _He was typing his login information into his laptop, doing what that first voice had been asking for and-

_Access Denied._

It took a second to register, but they'd changed his security code. America held his breath for a moment and stared at those two little words in red hovering over the crest of the United States Armed Forces on his desktop. The system wouldn't let him in, and he didn't have the patience right now to dig up his officer's codes from his last personal tour in Afghanistan: it wouldn't have the proper permissions anyways.

"My closest base is in France, you said the police are already on their way?" So _fuck you, _Mr. President. America closed the program and reached for his desk phone instead, punching the speaker option on his cell before setting that back down on the table and sitting down. This wasn't shaping up to be a fun Saturday afternoon, but he listened to Molossia's voice as he quickly started hammering in numbers, hoping- wait. "Does Italy know yet? Either of them?"

If Molossia didn't already know Romano's big secret then America would make it up to him, he'd find a way to do it, but right now wasn't the time to go worrying about keeping secrets. This was _need-to-know_.

"_He called South Italy from Rome before we left, North Italy knows something's wrong but- Jesus. They blew his head right off!"_ Okay, calm down. America changed the number he was dialling and placed the receiver against his ear, rifling through his desk looking for those important papers from his personal military files.

Gulf War, Iraq War, Afghanistan- there! Switzerland! Pulling out the thin paper file, it was the smallest of the bunch and he knocked the drawer closed with his foot, snapping the sleeve open and standing again so he could get a better look down at the papers as he flipped through them.

"There's no answer in Rome." Italy's house phone just kept ringing and ringing in his ear- maybe Italy still couldn't answer it? Was he speaking yet? See _this_ is why America had wanted to go to Hong Kong, then he could have asked South Italy these questions in private and got a proper update. Now he was left guessing instead, which sucked, and he hung up without answers.

It was one in the afternoon here at home, it was probably like eight at night in Italy, so if South Italy was still in Hong Kong then…

Whatever, he entered the cell code and waited.

"Blew his head off- whose head?" Italy's little brother was a Micro-nation, unrecognized, but still real, right? But Molossia wasn't answering him, he was still breathing heavily into the phone, but… "Molo-?"

"_I… I just…"_ Get it together, man. Wasn't he always going on about having been at war with East Germany for thirty years? "_That's different. You know that's different…" _Yeah, so talk to him and explain how. Who was crying in the background?

Romano's phone was taking forever to connect…

"_He's gonna wake up, right?"_ If his head was damaged then they should cover it, same thing went for any other big wounds. "_Cover, like, bandages?"_

"A sheet would be better, you don't want things to, uh, overlap…" Bad war memories came up just from mentioning it, but America shook his head until a rash of new voices broke in over the sound of Molossia's unsteady voice. "That the police?"

"_Yeah, I- uh, no- no! Sono Molossia- Sono Americano?"_ That was probably all the Italian Molossia knew, and his voice faded in a way that suggested he was putting his hands up as-ordered by the men around him. That was okay, and with his phone still struggling to connect to wherever Romano's was, America cleared his throat and was ready for the Italian voice that came blaring through across the line.

The human officer demanded to know who this call was and why he was talking to someone at a crime-scene. America slipped into the adopted language with only a small bump in his throat just trying to get his accent to work properly, and answered:

"This is Master Sergeant Alfred F. Jones of the United States Armed Forces." He could have bumped up his rank, but that wouldn't have agreed with what was in his most recent file. He wasn't like the Italian brothers: America didn't put himself at the top of the chain without earning it like everyone else. "Sergeant, did you say? With all due respect, sir, please organize a guarded compound for the victims of tonight's shooting. The young man with the head wound is the brother of Italian General Lovino Vargas. As I understand it the General has been informed, but I don't think he knows the extent of the crisis."

You didn't have to be forceful to get respect, Nations didn't have to flood the human mind with a patriotic fever to make them act or obey. A calm voice in a recognizable language was enough sometimes, an understanding of the situation, recognition of authority, and a willingness to co-operate all kept the human from losing his head over the phone.

America was allowed to hang up just a few seconds before Romano's voice finally crackled through the receiver pegged between his shoulder and ear. Instead of speaking firmly, America found himself frowning deeply and made his voice as soft as he could…

"…_America?"_

"Everything's gonna be okay." America knew what it was like to have everything go wrong all at once. He knew how hard it was to deal with what he was about to say: "Just listen to me and stay calm, alright? You're not alone…"

"…_What do you know?"_

* * *

It was hard to find things now. It made sense that those things weren't in the places he'd thought they'd be, but it was hard to find those memories. The last time he had been here had been back before everything else that he'd dealt with. It was back before the white walls and the bright florescent lights, back before the cold air and the red blood, back before screaming in a place that was so perfectly perfectly clean.

His desk had been moved, the files cleared out, the office supplies put away in Romano's drawers. His chair was still there, but there was no point using it: his computer was gone. Someone in the government had probably confiscated everything or given it to Romano. Whatever his brother hadn't been able to use or confirm the importance of was either being held in storage or had been shredded for safety.

He marvelled at the level of detail in this dream. It was almost over whelming, especially when instead of being caged inside for hours trying in vain to find what he wanted, he actually found it. He found them in long leather-bound books in the deep drawers of the storage unit bolted to the wall adjacent the street-side window. When he opened them on Romano's desk they were there in startling detail, all the numbers and codes and accounts, all the math with little totals done in red and black ink. There were pencil checks and the soft marks of erasers grazing the pages too, even the paper smelled the way it should: the accountant who handled them smoked too much.

There were more pencils in the drawer next to him. There was a calculator in the one beside that. There was a pad of lined paper resting under a set of files his brother had left stacked there for when he came back from across the world.

He had worked from the time just after Seborga had left until now, when it was dark outside and the numbers were endless and logical. He expected the cascade of information to do him in, to tear him away, to drown his senses until he couldn't breathe, couldn't swim. He expected them to be what dragged him back down into the cold and the pain and the fear.

Instead, the anger kept him buoyant. This wasn't making any sense: everything here _made_ sense. If it all made sense and it all evened out, every number balanced against another number, then why was it hurting like this? Why did it get so, so bad to the point where he doubled over again in Romano's chair, behind Romano's desk, his crippled arm hugged close to his body as the pain, _pain, pain, pain…!_

"Veneziano?" It wasn't here. The answer wasn't here. "A-Are you alright?"

He had everything else: a father who helped him sit up again, and numbers that added up and made sense every time he looked at them, and guests downstairs who stayed away because he was too upset to see them. But he had no answer. There was no relief for him here, and if he wanted that then he would have to go _there_. Could he manage it? Maybe. Maybe he could, but not tonight… No, it had to be tonight.

"_Ge-_" But it was so hard to say it. His throat opened and he cinched it shut again, he wouldn't say it. Even when Papa touched his face and crooned his questions: was he hungry? Was he tired? Did he feel alright? Did he want to try calling Romano? Did he need help standing? Did he want to go take a rest? He wore through the questions and leaned his head on the shoulder next to him, alright with the hand on his face as his arms stayed curled around the throbbing pain in his gut.

He had to say it. He had to ask.

He had to just _do _it.

"…_Get out."_

* * *

Take the night shift, he'd said. Help out a friend, he'd said. I'll make it up to you, he'd said.

Not very likely, but there wasn't a terrible amount the Air Force Captain could do at well past midnight while on duty. It was required for at least one commissioned officer to be present at all times and the Captain had mistakenly agreed to help out a friend in the same unit. He'd kept busy for an hour or so doing some filing and reading through a few technical documents, but the productive time had passed and now he was just so, terribly, bored. Being transferred to Rome had been good for his career, but that was about it.

There was no sense complaining about it though. Decorated or not, all officers wound up with the night shift eventually, which would thankfully only last another hour before he was relieved. When the phone on his desk abruptly rang at quarter to one in the morning the Captain was equal parts surprised and elated by having something to do.

At least, those were his thoughts until he actually heard the voice scraping and gasping through the line…

"_Ge… General Va-" _that name..?_ "-Vargas, needs three- three __**honourable**__ men…_" The emphasis on honourable was tangible, but how did you measure something like that?

"_Now."_

Yes sir.

* * *

It had taken an executive order from Yao Wang of the Chinese Army to get the pilot to take off in the high winds of that Hong Kong storm. Romano was thankful for it, enough so that he didn't even care about that hazing. It had been embarrassing to have himself torn down like that right before he'd sprinted up the steps and into the jet, but he'd weathered that first emotional storm.

Almost five hours later, the lack of sleep and progress had taught him just how helpless he still was. It had been terrible while he was on the ground, but at least then he could run around and hassle people. He'd been able to get into an argument with China with the wind howling past them on the run-way, he'd spoken to his boss and given orders, taken advice. He'd been doing something, even if it hadn't been much.

Now he was trapped in a pressurized tube rocketing along at nearly eight-hundred kilometers an hour high above Eurasia. It was almost 8am again by his body's time, but he couldn't sleep. There was room to walk around on a jet this big since a tiny Cessna couldn't make it all the way across Asia in one leap, but he could barely stand. He'd asked the tired stewardess to turn down the cabin lights so the compartment was dim, but he wasn't resting. The vibration of the engines had turned into a low drone, the soundproofing keeping most of the noise outside and away from him, but he wasn't relaxed.

Romano'd let himself sink into the plush leather chair, feet up on the low table between it and the next seat. He had one hand up over his eyes, the other just resting in his lap. He'd spoken to America hours ago, and he'd struggled to call Rome and figure out what they knew, but he ultimately had nothing, and he'd told his family nothing.

His brother had been shot.

Nothing else really mattered after he heard that. His brother had been attacked and shot in his own home. He was a Micro-nation and he was too small for shocks like that. At least one of his civilians was dead too, and Micro-nations couldn't handle that sort of trauma. Micro-nations with authority and power like Vatican, or with tradition and a recognizable presence like San Marino, yes. Those kinds of nations could survive a death or two. They could take the physical trauma of being badly wounded.

But _Seborga_..?

His brother had been shot. Romano had done everything he could to contact the military in the area, but they'd told him they already had orders from "General Vargas" and didn't know why he was calling again. There was nothing to update him with, not yet. He'd been so undercut by their confusion that he hadn't reminded them that there were two military executives with the surname Vargas.

The e-mail that had made his blood boil was useless to him now. It had cut through the nauseous fear China'd inspired in him, but now it was just another taunt. That message was just one more thing he couldn't do anything about, and it would only get worse by the time he touched down in another five hours.

He'd told the pilot to make adjustments so they could land in Nice, not Rome. The human hadn't liked that idea but he wasn't allowed to argue with Romano. They had enough fuel for the extra leg, but just barely. Landing in France wasn't appealing to Romano but he couldn't stand the idea of returning to Rome just yet. He couldn't face his family right now; he couldn't do it any more than he'd been able to handle Germany, or Spain, or China back in Hong Kong.

He'd failed them.

And Veneziano knew.

And even if Veneziano didn't know that it was a bullet to the head or a murder in the town hall, he knew something was happening to their little brother.

And Romano wasn't crying about it, he just didn't know what to do.

* * *

**Romano rode in a Canadian-made _Bombardier Global Express_ private jet. The range is roughly 12,000KM, but most aircraft don't carry their maximum fuel load (the tank is typically only about 2/3rds full). I'm not sure about the flight path from Hong Kong to Rome so I can't tell you whether it would be closer for them to land in Nice or not.**

******Originally I had time-stamps, but it's also in the text? If it's too confusing then I'll reinsert the time-stamps, just keep in mind that things weren't happening at the exact same time.**

******And another on Sunday!**


	27. The Vargas Brothers

**Letters From Heaven, Rest Calm, Lost in Paradise, End of the Dream, Decision of the Loved**

**For someone who wasn't meant to speak until like his third meeting with Germany, Vene's become quite the chatty bugger. Then again I also thought this story would end in under 15 chapters, so what do I know?**

**This is my new favourite chapter, and because I'm a baby I'd recommend tissues and sad music.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

The Vargas Family

It was a long night that wasn't made any easier by the two strange Micro-nations sitting in Romano's living room. Vatican gave up on trying to turn them out after the phone calls started ringing and his watch indicated that it was well past midnight.

Veneziano had locked himself in the brothers' home office and had refused to come out. He was in pain, but it wasn't until Vatican answered the house phone and heard Romano's voice on the other end that he understood why:

"_I'm sorry, Papa. Please, please forgive me-!"_ It was like that night on the train north to Venice, but this time the Vatican City State was too far away to help comfort his son. It didn't matter what words he chose to murmur or lecture through the receiver, Romano's tears wouldn't stop and South Italy sounded like he was dying. "_I don't know what to do- what am I supposed to do? How do I-?"_

"Land in France and get to him as fast as you can." It was all he could say, blinking through the shock of Romano's news without letting his voice crack. Seborga had lived a long time, one shooting would not end him now… "Romano, just worry about one thing at a time: sleep now- yes, sleep, you need to rest. You are travelling as fast as humanly possible: take advantage of that and do what's best for you. _Sleep. Please._" He might have felt better if he was running or driving, but the simple truth was that there was nothing faster than flying, and he was on one of the few aircraft in the world that could move that fast without having to land and refuel. "Sleep so that when you arrive you can help them. Please, for me, Lovino: you have to calm down."

He was beyond simply tired or distressed, South Italy was at his limit and Vatican couldn't rationalize how or why he'd failed to notice it before sending him on his way. Had he been taking care of himself before leaving? He'd certainly seemed like it…

Now wasn't the time for that. There could be no second guessing right now. When he finally coaxed Romano to hang up and try, please _try_, to get some rest, the Micro-nation was struck with a sudden sense of being in the midst of nothing.

There was no better way to explain it. He knew something was happening, that something had changed, or was changing, and that it would come to affect him in some way later. But right now there was nothing. He was standing in the eye of a mighty storm hovering directly over their household.

It was a terrible feeling.

And it only got worse when he heard Veneziano's footsteps coming down the stairs, and he saw what his son was wearing.

* * *

Those names, the dream wanted to use _those names_ to wake him up, and he wasn't going to tolerate it. That was the decision he made when he left the office behind and slipped into his bedroom on the second floor.

His body was aching and sore, and to be honest his throat hurt from so much use today, but the anger was burning too high to let him care. He didn't want to speak, he didn't want to explain, but he'd accepted the challenge. The dream master had finally made a mistake, it had made a critical, crucial error, and he was going to exploit it.

If it had been him personally then the shock would have broken him today, he was sure of it. If it had been Romano, that would have broken him. If it was China: broken. Spain: broken. France: broken. Arthur Kirkland: shattered. America: destroyed.

But it was Seborga. The dream was attacking Seborga, and then it had tried to use one of _those names_ against him.

Enough.

What he needed wasn't in his room, there were only pieces of it: black shoes that he forced his shaking hands to buff with a polishing rag. He stained his clothes in the process but that was irrelevant. A hidden key-card was still stuck in the back of a picture frame, and he turned that over several times in his hand before sticking it in his pocket. The picture itself had been removed from the frame like everything red or dark blue from his wardrobe: he hadn't been able to bear seeing those faces smiling at him. He had his own pale blue collared shirt and carried that with him.

He had to go to Romano's room for everything else, because they were close enough in size that the straight-cut blue pants fit almost right when he pulled them on- but why so loose? He didn't want to wear the tie, the black strip was terrifying to him because he could vividly recall all the many ways a cloth strap around the neck could hurt and choke the wearer. But he put it on, and a set of safety pins inside the collar and under the backside kept it from moving around: no one would be able to grab it. He tested it himself and jabbed one of his fingers on the sharp metal. Good.

Their badges were different and that irritated him. Romano's jacket was General-rank, as it should be, but instead of a naval crest the army's insignia was stamped on the cuffs and shoulder marks. He didn't want the army, and even as he felt the logic building up to tell him all the reasons why the army would serve him better than the navy or the air force, it didn't change anything: he didn't want the army. He wanted his navy. He wanted his air force. He wanted them because they were his, because they belonged to him. He wanted them because this dream had given him a time-line that said all the men and machines of his branches of the armed forces had trained with him, had been trained _by_ him, and he wanted them.

But Romano was a General in the Army, and as much as he'd been frightened of the tie, on principle he would not put on this part of the uniform. He put it back on its hook and wrapped it in the same plastic as before, stuffing it deep inside the closet before he started searching again, pulling back hook after hook. Romano would not have thrown away the uniform he'd had removed from the other room. He had not been wearing his dress uniform to that meeting, certainly not while trekking through the wilderness, so it had to be here.

He could feel his frustration burning higher, forcing his left hand to hold back the piling clothes so he could keep searching. He ignored the tension in his sore limb and weathered through the lancing pain in his gut that told him something else somewhere else had gone wrong again, and when his hands found a black plastic sleeve he tore the zipper down to-

There…

Dark blue like any other officer's uniform, with four embossed gold buttons down the middle to keep the folds shut. Two breast pockets with a third one lower on the right side. An eagle pin with wings out-stretched was pinned to the right breast pocket under the gold button, and it symbolized the air force. The left side was embellished with ribbons and tags, only his four highest decorations actually pinned to the garment while the rest were safely protected in cases and boxes. Gold thread dominated the sleeve cuffs and shoulder straps, and a gold star on either lapel indicated rank.

The familiarity of the garment was terrifying because it was exactly how it should have been. Everything down to the minor tear he felt inside the lining was present, and when he opened the body of the tunic he found the worn-out patch under the right arm. Looking down at the closet floor, the familiar white box meant to hold his hat was sitting right there, waiting for him.

But it didn't fit?

He slid his arms through the sleeves and pulled the heavy material over his shoulders, and it didn't fit. It didn't make any sense: this was a dream and he was making a choice, an important, sensible decision to don an item drenched in symbolism. Why didn't it fit? It was too big: the arms were so wide they buckled when he let his arms hang straight, and when he did up the buttons in the front it hung loose around his torso.

He didn't understand. This had never happened before.

Other clothes hadn't fit him, old shirts and long jackets, jeans and belts and other things. He'd known he'd lost weight, he'd felt himself become thin and almost frail as his health waxed and waned, but this didn't make any sense.

This outfit should fit. The uniform was supposed to fit. How could he look at himself in the mirror and be such a mess? There were creases at the knees of his pants where they'd been hung up, there was dust on the hem of his tunic. When he pulled the black leather gloves out of the silk bag attached to the hanger, those were the only things that fit properly on his hands- but he didn't even know where that mark had come from until he remembered it getting caught on a car door in Paris.

Too many details. They should have been blurring together, why were they growing sharper?

Too many things were wrong when they should have been right. Everything should have been consolidating itself into a symbolic whole, not hanging off his bones and challenging the illusion like this. This wasn't right, it didn't even feel hopeless enough to be a manipulation: he didn't feel hopeless, he felt frustrated. He was irritated. It didn't matter how long it would take him to iron and brush the uniform, he couldn't damned well hem the stupid thing himself and take in the shoulders in less than forty minutes.

And he measured it in minutes, because he knew, he just knew, that the time wouldn't blur away and leave him confused in nine hours from now. He'd watched the time for weeks and it had never run away from him as it ought to have before now. Even in the other dreams, he would lay down in winter and wake up in spring, why did this one have to be so painful?

But he didn't have time for these thoughts now. He'd lost the precious minutes it would have taken to manage the dust and wrinkles. He saw the lights flash outside and knew he had to do this, the thing he'd resolved to do. The dream master could take his appearances, but it couldn't steal his resolve, not this time.

He marched downstairs and barely acknowledged Vatican as he came out of the kitchen with a worried call. He opened the front door before that terrible sound could ring and fill the house with the chimes and crashes of the devil's grandfather clock. He braced himself for the dream to end when he saw the Captain in officer's blue standing there, he was ready for it when he grabbed his long coat off the hook and kept that leather book under his arm.

He'd already tied his too-long hair back behind his head, and he dared the monster to take him away now when he stepped over the threshold and slipped his broad-rimmed blue hat over his head. He straightened the hat by its the black brim and ran his gloved fingertips back over the gold cords decorating it like the Italian eagle and stars. He waited for the dream to end, but with him standing outside under the cold white light over his front door, it didn't.

It didn't end. He was still here.

"General Vargas," And if he was still here, then he could still act. "Your orders were vague, sir, it seemed prudent that I should-" There were four soldiers here, not three. There was one enlisted and three officers, one was the Captain speaking to him before he raised one hand and pointed at the second man in dark blue: a Staff Sergeant.

"You, the boys." Ah- his throat scratched and grated, struggling against the sounds he was making. But these words were safe, he could use these. "You-" the other officer, a Second Lieutenant, "-my father."

"Sir."

"Yes sir."

"Veneziano, what are you-?"

He didn't have to say anything else, he didn't have to do or speak beyond what he already had. He felt a thick, heavy heat in his gut that welled up through his chest and shoulders before vanishing. Two sharp salutes answered his orders, which were taken without question or confusion.

"Hold on a moment, you can't just-"

"_Signore Vargas, sir, it's late, please come inside."_

"_Ah, you two must be visiting Rome? Can you show me where you're sleeping?"_

"Stop them- why are you-?_"_

These men would protect the people inside.

They would defend the people inside.

They would keep track of and care for their needs, they would warn away any potential threats. They would not hesitate to use force to carry out their orders, and they would shoot anything that compromised the safety of this household, and they would give their lives to fulfill those duties.

"_Veneziano!"_

And if they didn't, he'd shoot them himself.

"You two, with me."

* * *

Romano wasn't going to think about it: the remainder of the flight. And he wasn't going to think about the officials in Nice who were there to greet him for some reason. Obviously China had said something to France, who'd called ahead to his administration, and Romano just wasn't going to think about it. The French gave him a driver and a car, and Romano was barely functioning when he said something about friendship and climbed into the vehicle.

He was numb to the time it took to reach San Remo, the damaged city on the Mediterranean coast with the closest hospital to Seborga. Signs of the earthquake were still visible in places: cracked sidewalks, roped off buildings, empty squares where structures had collapsed, abandoned lots with the remains of churches and schools strewn across them. But it was still a city of almost sixty-thousand, and when the car rolled up in front of the local hospital at 8am that Sunday morning, Romano's door was opened by one of three police officers standing guard outside the building.

"Sir, thank you for coming so quick-"

"Are you the one in charge here?" Stepping out of the vehicle, Romano didn't want to get caught standing still or not doing anything and started walking immediately for the doors, the human keeping pace beside him. He'd been tormented for the entire flight from Hong Kong, now he was home again, now he could act. It didn't matter how little of his brain was actually functioning right now, he had enough mental strength left to notice the badges pinned to the man's uniform that meant he had seniority on his force. Just by paying closer attention to the way he held himself and pulled the door open for him, South Italy identified a former army man who'd transferred into the law enforcement branch of the armed forces.

He took comfort in this, there was no sense looking for pleasure as they ducked inside.

"What happened, Sergeant?"

"With all due respect, sir, I think you know." Comfort, not pleasure. The human knew what Romano was, had probably seen him in uniform, and had probably served under him in one of NATO's stupid wars. As they moved swiftly through the hospital's bright and sterile interior, the nation listened to his soldier speak: "According the three witnesses who were present, there were at least six armed men and three vehicles. The American took down the licencing information and we're running that now, the witnesses are here in the hospital." Good.

"Arrests?"

"None sir."

"Casualties?"

"All four of them put up a decent fight. They reportedly injured members of the other party, but nothing has turned up. We contacted INTERPOL offices in Rome and Geneva last night."

"Fatalities?" Romano wasn't even sure if he was listening or not, he was just walking. He asked the questions he had to ask because he was the nation, and he drowned out the answers because as a brother he didn't want to hear them.

"Two. They're both in the morgue here, sir. We'd like to request your help identifying one of them."

"Take me to the morgue." He'd end up there soon anyways, he might as well get it over with…

They crossed a red line on the floor that indicated hospital personnel only, and when they stopped in front of an elevator Romano watched the human touch the wall panel to summon the car.

A brief moment of silence followed, and the human took a sharp, uncomfortable breath:

"Again, sir, with all due -"

"Sergeant, you don't owe me respect right now." Not after the last twenty-four hours. Not after the last six months. "Speak freely."

The human was looking at him but Romano couldn't bear it, he just stared blankly at the steel doors in front of him. He kept willing them to open faster, but if they arrived down in the morgue and he saw what he expected on that table, it would break his heart.

"My…" The Sergeant had to stop and take another breath, and Romano must have looked so pathetic to him right now. How would it feel to spend your whole life serving someone who looked the way he did? "My daughter lives in Verona, sir." Verona, a city of rubble. Numbers tumbled into his head at the mere thought, but none of them equalled what was actually happening on the ground. "She told me that-"

The elevator bell dinged and the steel doors slid open with a lazy yawn, cutting off the Sergeant's voice as the empty chamber in front of them just hung there in the shaft. Romano's hands had been in his jacket pockets since they'd come inside, he didn't pull them out now or shift his weight to step forward.

"She told you what?" But he wanted to know. Romano had no right to hear it, but he wanted to. The fact that he could barely drag his voice up above a whisper just made him feel all the more pathetic for clinging to it. The deep breath the human took might have been for a sigh, but it wasn't.

"She told me that your brother dragged my granddaughter out of the rubble that night." It wasn't a sigh, it was more like a gasp, followed by a pledge: "So with all due respect, and there will never not be respect, sir, if you would rather set aside business and see your brother first, I would be honoured to help make that happen." It wasn't what he'd expected to hear, so Romano didn't know what he was supposed to say.

The hand that touched his shoulder just made it even harder to gain focus. The new, sudden perspective was enough. He suddenly realized that he'd missed this, and that he'd been missing this for months. He'd missed how, with one brief touch, the world outside these walls melted away and the man who lived inside the nation was allowed to let his head up.

Romano took a deep breath. He intended to say something with it but he just tilted his head back, blinking quickly in the bright florescence of the hospital lights. Everything made his throat squeeze shut, the words backing up into his chest until the pain tried getting out through his eyes instead. His body wasn't shaking, but his jaw was when he managed to voice one mangled plea:

"Tell me he isn't downstairs…" Not in the morgue, please don't let him be in the morgue. Vatican had told him Seborga had left with friends, his friends wouldn't let them put him down there with the dead unless he was never coming back…

The Sergeant changed hands so he was still holding the nation's shoulder, his other hand moving around his back. A little bit of force got Romano to start walking and they stepped into the elevator before the doors could sweep shut. He couldn't take his eyes off the ceiling, and he didn't look at which button the Sergeant pressed to get them going. The machinery driving the shaft started up with a quiet hum, and before Romano could tell which way the forces on his body were pulling him, the man to his left spoke again:

"The Principality of Seborga is on the second floor."

Romano blinked… maybe eight times trying to keep the stinging sensation from seeping out of his eyes. In the end he dropped his gaze to the elevator floor and tried to casually swipe the hot tracks with his hand as they formed. He couldn't pry his own lips apart, wouldn't let himself, instead he pinched them together with his teeth trying to stop the trembling in his jaw. He was upstairs.

"His friends aren't being detained, there are three of them but we've got the youngest one in our custody just until we can get a hold of his guardians." Guardians..?

As they left the elevator behind Romano tried asking if one of the people with his brother was a human, but he couldn't manage it. He stopped listening again after that and just focused on following the Sergeant around a bend in the hall.

A large space with blue chairs and a few potted plants appeared. Winter light was streaming in through giant windows, the Mediterranean Sea visible as a dark blue band over the horizon, mingling with the grey clouds covering most of the sky. Romano noticed two men and another police officer over in the corner, one with stark black hair and the other a dirty blonde, but when the one with sunglasses stood up South Italy just kept walking. He didn't care right now, not yet.

"Hey, uh-" no. "Wait, Mr. Ita-" no. Not even an American accent was going to get in his way right now, but with the officer's hand on his arm the man with black hair kept trying: "Please, we didn't know who was in there, if we'd thought he'd get hurt we never would have let him go alone!" Alone?

Seborga had been alone.

He'd left Rome with friends, but they'd abandoned him, left him. He'd been all-

"You have every right to be mad at us, but please, just-"

"Shut up." Romano stopped walking, he didn't understand why but he nodded at the Sergeant to keep going and lead him to the room he wanted. He didn't look at the man yelling at him in English, he just kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes staring blankly ahead of him. "Give your statement and leave. Get out of my territory, I want you away from my family." If they needed transportation to get back to wherever they were from then fine, Romano would pay for it out of pocket if he had to.

"Please-"

"_Get out._" And he started moving again, because Romano realized that if he let himself stop here he wouldn't go forward, and he'd come too far too fast to give up now. He walked away as he heard the second one standing up to challenge him, and didn't look back as he heard:

"At least let us stay until he wakes up!"

Romano's world _tilted._ He wasn't sure if he took a mis-step and stumbled, but it didn't feel like it, and he swallowed the stinging bile that suddenly teased the back of his throat. He was not going to fall, he was not going to fail, he was not going to stumble to a stop because some Micro-nation he'd never heard of said something to him. Romano was not going to prove China right again, he wasn't going to let himself fail his family again.

But that word hit him, and the hallway didn't straighten up again until he reached the door he could barely see with the Sergeant he hardly recognized. Asleep: that was the word that choked him. More than alone: asleep. All the bad things he refused to imagine were wrapped up in those two evil words. With all of their complex meanings, "alone" and "asleep" were what tried to unhinge him.

The Sergeant opened the door without being asked, and Romano was vaguely aware of it swinging shut behind him with a soft click once he was inside. The room had no windows, it was dim. There was an orange lamp on a small table, a hospital bed with plastic rails dominating the narrow space. There was a breathing machine and heat monitor, screens with vital signs plugging away in silence. It was a recovery room, not intensive care. The breathing machine had been turned off.

'_Not again._' A week ago his brothers had both been safe in Rome, and now Romano had to end that thought because the parallels would kill him if he drew them all together. But it had been one week.

One short, tiny week.

Punctuated by a weeping phone-call.

Now unrecognizable, and asleep.

'_Not this again, please-'_ Romano had both hands wrapped around the rail at the foot of the bed, staring down at the half-familiar person in front of him. The pale blue blanket over his brother's body had been tucked around one of his legs, leaving the other exposed and cradled in what looked like a splint waiting for reconstructive surgery. The limb was raised slightly, bent at the gauze-smothered joint that had been his knee some thirteen hours ago.

Seborga was a nation, he could heal faster than a human and from far more grievous injuries. Someone must have told the surgeons not to take him under the knife to try and fill his body with silicon and steel pieces. If they'd done any work on him it would have just been to control bleeding and blood-flow to his calf and foot. At least Romano hoped so.

His left arm was draped over his chest, but after the hospital staff had taken his clothes they hadn't redressed him properly. A hospital gown was just draped over him under the blanket, and Romano saw more white gauze and padding over whelming his right shoulder. There was a large buldge under the blankets over his stomach, and the older brother felt his bottom lip hurt from biting it so hard.

'_Not again, not again, not again-' _He wanted to reach out and touch him, but Romano just couldn't shake the suffocating fear that if he did then his brother would shatter. It didn't have to make sense, all he could think of were fragments of ice breaking away under his fingertips, sharp needles of helpless guilt like fibreglass clouds in the air.

The damage to Seborga's body didn't compare to the head, because it was the first thing Romano saw and the last thing he could process.

For a moment he almost looked bald, but the deformed way the white wraps cupped his skull made a far more frightening statement. The right side of his face was taped and bandaged, the upper half of his cheek hidden away and his eye completely engulfed in soft cotton. His left eye was visible, but closed, his head tilted slightly to the left so Romano could see the way the back of his skull had dipped in from the lack of support. Maybe, he prayed, someone had told the surgeons not to stuff the cavity with anything, that it would only slow the healing process if they did.

At least that's what Romano would have prayed for, if he could just interrupt the begging chant in his mind.

Not again.

Please not again.

Don't make them go through this again.

They couldn't do this again.

_He couldn't handle this again…_

"_Wake up…_" What was the point of even asking? Why bother whispering like that? God hadn't given him a break yet, why would he start now? "_Wake up… please wake up._" His heart was beating in his chest, the breathing machine was off and disconnected because he was filling his lungs on his own, but that didn't matter. Veneziano's heart had kept beating. Veneziano hadn't stopped breathing. But it had taken his brother two months to wake up, and he hadn't been the same again for a moment since.

"_Please-!"_ No, the pain got him around the throat like a wire, and Romano just couldn't keep it together. He stumbled around the bed and took his brother's hand, "Don't do this to me again, _please, please don't_-" Not again, not again, not again- "I'm trying, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry- I know why this happened and _I couldn't stop it!_" He couldn't bring his voice down either, not with the tears blurring the horrible sight in front of him, not with his hands shaking like he was dying from the cold outside. He could barely touch his brother's face, nevermind speak as he gasped the words, sitting on the edge of the bed now and struggling with himself for how to hold him without _breaking_ him…

"Please, _please-" _He just- cried. "You can't do this too, you can't leave me like this: you can't leave _any_ of us like this! _Seborga!"_

He wouldn't call him by his human name. Luca? No! Luca Vargas wouldn't be able to recover from a shattered knee, torn guts, or a collapsed skull, but the Principality of Seborga could! The nation couldn't die from four bullets, he wouldn't let it, and South Italy just closed his eyes and pulled his brother's palm up against his lips. He kissed it and he felt himself rocking back and forth, his fingers brushing through Seborga's and cradling his wrist down to his elbow. And it hurt to sit there sobbing, but it would have hurt more to try and leave without giving up for a moment just to stay like this.

He didn't hear anything, the only thing he noticed was the pressure on his sinuses when Seborga's thumb pushed against the side of his nose, stroking slowly back and catching at least one tear under his eye. His fingers curled gently in Romano's grasp, but he couldn't let go of him: he just kissed his palm again and then slowly let himself lean down. He braced his hands on the bed and sank until he could press his lips against his brother's forehead, eyes only open for a moment before the tears made him give up and close them again.

"I… I can't see…" Seborga barely breathed the words and Romano just pulled back a little, looking down where his brother's green eye was half-open in the shadows. "I can't…" He had control of his hand though, and the older sibling felt the younger touch his wet cheek, trace his swollen eyes, and try to find something of Romano's to hold on to for comfort. Romano offered the cross hanging around his neck, and he let Seborga curl his fingers around the talisman. He swallowed his sobs and brushed his palm against the whole half of his brother's face, leaning down again to kiss between his nose and his eye, thanking a God that hadn't listened to him once until now.

"You'll be okay," he whispered, shaking still and scared to pull away. "You'll heal, and then-"

"They'll be back…" No… No don't say things like that… "Calabrian…"

"What?"

"He was… Calabrian." Seborga's eye was open but out of focus, his fingers still coiled around the rosary looping Romano's neck, but he wasn't pulling on it. "I think he's dead…" Such a soft voice, weak from pain and medication… "I hope he's dead…" Such a strong voice, hardened from grief.

"If he's not…" Romano took the hand around the rosary and lifted it again, wrapping his brother's fingers up between his palms and laying a reverent kiss on the back of his knuckles. He wouldn't let go, and he felt his brother try and hold on to him. "I'll kill him myself."

He'd kill them all himself, and no one would hurt Lovino Vargas' family again.

No one.

* * *

******Honestly, the parallels between Sebo and Vene never ever came up in any of my notes, it wasn't an idea I thought up or scribbled down to keep track of. It showed up briefly in 24 when I was in the middle of writing it, and it reared its ugly head again here. ****This is what happens when you write +250,000 words with the same cast of characters. ): **

**********But hey at least he woke up! I didn't drag it out for another 10 chapters so I think I deserve a cookie. Or a review. **Why not leave a revieewwwww below? See you next week!


	28. Military Standard

**Memories, See Who I Am, Pts of Authority, None Can Die, The Lightning Strike, See What I've Become, Heart of Fire, Invincible, Rest Calm, Paper Stars, World So Cold.**

**I'm sorry I don't like this chapter either, so lets get rid of it on a Tuesday night and pretend today never happened. Rewrote it twice because it was horrible, and it's still terrible, but I just can't justify not having this content in here somewhere because it's the whole reason I wrote chapter 12. **

**I do have good news though. Since I'm simultaneously working on chapters 31/2/3, this story ought to be complete by 35. It's 20 chapters longer than my very first draft, 10 chapters longer than the estimates on the fifth draft, and going-to-be-done before I go insane. Who knew setting up an AU would be so frickin' complicated?**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Military Standard

The first thing Captain Lorenzo Rossi wondered when he met General Feliciano Vargas was how such a young man had risen so high up the ranks. He wasn't just captivated by how he'd reached the General Star, but that he wore it so proudly. It wasn't impossible to climb to the very top without first serving a lifetime or more in the military; it was just surprising to meet someone who'd done it.

It wasn't strange that he didn't know of him either, although the name Vargas was well known in the Military. Regardless of his own honours as a soldier, there were more generals between the four branches of the Armed Forces than the Captain could pretend to have met.

He was just surprised that the door opened to such a young face, especially one hidden under both a General's brim and so many ghostly scars. He'd fooled himself, after hearing the voice over the phone, that the General would be a grey, wizened old man, not someone his own age or maybe younger.

But General Vargas still _carried_ himself like a General. He was a high commander in the Italian Air Force, it had been all over the records the Captain had pulled up trying to fulfill those midnight orders. The General was not a tall man, but he didn't have to be. The Captain couldn't say for sure why, with less than ten words, he'd been able to give two of the finest men he'd ever served with complete and unquestionable orders, but the Captain had been almost jealous of the attention before the commands for himself and Chief Airman Bernardi were practically grunted.

What had followed for the three of them had been an incredibly long night fueled by some kind of burning need to just see it through to the end, regardless of whatever "it" was supposed to be.

From General Vargas's home they'd driven to the Military HQ in Rome. At nearly three in the morning that Sunday, the officer and enlisted had been left to their own devices in a lobby for an exhausting three hours, waiting for the General to come back. It was the only opportunity they had to catch up on missing sleep, and the Captain had taken full advantage until the doors opened again and General Vargas made his return.

Whatever they were doing couldn't wait for a decent hour any more than it would let the General, who showed obvious pain when walking, any rest. He accepted the arm the Captain offered when it was obvious he was beginning to tip over, but wouldn't surrender either the thick leather dossier under his arm or the cell phone clutched in his gloved hand. There was no talking after the initial offer of help, the General didn't frown on it, he just wouldn't reply.

The Captain couldn't say what possessed him after that to put the jeep they'd arrived in on the highway going north out of Rome. The General didn't tell him to do it from the passenger seat, and Bernardi didn't say anything in the back, but it wasn't until they were screaming towards the city limits in the six-am dark that the officer noticed the absolute death-grip his superior had on those carefully bound files in his lap. At that point it simply became necessary to ask:

"Am I going the wrong way, sir?" The General only shook his head, all but lost in the depths of his black wool coat, but the hat moved and he'd lifted one gloved hand with a wave, gesturing for them to keep going. An overpass sign identifying their route as the way to Florence passed by, and between keeping his eyes on the non-existent traffic and the senior officer to his right, the anxiety was almost palpable.

"Bernardi, try and get some sleep back there." Glancing up into the rear-view mirror as he gave the order, the Captain waited until the younger man had laid down and stayed like that for a few minutes. He doubted the soldier could fall asleep that fast, but it was better to address the problem sooner rather than later. If Bernardi heard anything, he'd know not to bring it up.

"If I may, sir." The General was not a talkative individual. He looked almost scared on top of sickly as he stared at the road, but the captain hoped his voice would help. "It's an honour to serve under a Vargas again."

He got what he wanted. General Vargas glanced from the amber lights of the highway winding ahead of them to look at him, and the Captain just kept driving. He understood that he'd taken a risk wording it like that, but the raspy voice of the man next to him wasn't the same as the commander the Captain had obeyed during his last live mission.

"…Veteran?" General didn't put much behind the word, but it was still a question.

"Two campaigns, sir."

"Where?"

"I've flown over Libya and Switzerland." There was silence after that and the Captain didn't know if there was an emotion behind it, but the tense atmosphere for looser for his efforts. The General stopped watching him and glanced back out into the darkness, and it seemed like he was lost in thought for several minutes before he spoke again.

"Honours?" A few marks of achievement, but somehow he understood that the General wasn't asking about years of service or training missions he'd participated in.

"A gold cross, sir." For valor. He wasn't wearing it, of course. The medal he'd been given by the _other_ General Vargas, the one who'd commanded that Swiss mission, was safe back in Rome, tucked in a safe place near his dress uniform.

The General fell deep into his own mind after that, and there was no more conversation for the rest of the morning. Although he hadn't slept much all night, the Captain brought them to the city of Florence three hours after they'd departed from Rome, the pale winter sunlight finally gracing them with its presence in the east.

Florence had not been destroyed by the Earthquake, but signs of the destruction littered the countryside on the way there and haunted the city core. Damaged, condemned buildings stood on street corners as hallowed reminders of what had happened, cracked streets and abandoned piles of rubble echoing the disaster. The General seemed overwhelmed by every broken sidewalk and sign announcing no trespassing or plans to rezone and rebuild swaths of the city centre.

The turned and detoured through the metropolis, getting stuck once or twice in morning traffic. At one point they managed to park and sent Bernardi to find them something to eat. General Vargas declined getting out of the vehicle without actually barring either of them from taking a walk if they wanted to, but the Chief Airman was fast and the Captain only gave his legs a brief stretch before they climbed back into the jeep.

He had no idea where he was supposed to be driving anymore, and General Vargas wasn't giving any hints either, at one point all but hiding under his hat and coat when they drove past the half-ruined shell of the city's major cathedral. A sharp hand-gesture told him to take them as far from the historic quarter as possible, and the Captain was half-convinced the General rode with both eyes closed until his wish was fulfilled. He seemed almost at the verge of tears at one point, but suddenly that all changed.

An ambulance sped by them with lights and sirens blaring in the mid-morning light, and without explaining why the General pointed after it. There was no reason to ignore the silent order, and with rush-hour traffic and pedestrians retired to work and school, the illegal turn he pulled went almost unnoticed.

They followed, moving in the ambulance's wake with almost no traffic to get in their way. When the screaming truck wheeled through a restricted entrance the General gestured again for them to follow, and with a lurch the jeep revved up the steep concrete incline to reach around behind the towering hospital and through to the ambulance bay. As soon as they stopped, the Captain was shocked by General Vargas swinging his door open and sliding heavily down onto the pavement.

Some twenty yards ahead of them the paramedic crew was scrambling out of the ambulance. Four surgeons in hospital scrubs and sterile gowns were already rushing out to meet them, and from this far it was almost impossible to hear what they were saying. Information was running back and forth between the two parties, words jumping over the prone and blood-stained body resting on the gurney.

But someone else was there too, a man in a tall black suit?

"Bernardi, hurry up!" The Captain called, quickly jumping from the driver's seat and following the General who'd brought them here. His shoes struck the asphalt and he could hear a sudden conflict brewing between the people in front of him, catching up with the General's jagged gait in time to hear it:

"This hospital is not a charity, if he does not have coverage-"

"This is a hospital, and _this_ is an emergency!" One of the paramedics, a furious dark-skinned woman with blood on her gloved hands, was shouting back at the man in the suit. She broke off from him and looked sharply at the men behind her, yelling at the hospital staff instead: "Take him inside before the patch breaks, it won't hold much longer and this man needs surgery!"

"And this hospital needs insurance," the black suit was dull next to the brilliant red emergency uniform the paramedic was wearing, but his voice was sharper without being as loud: "or will you pay the surgeons and staff to take care of him?"

"It is the _law!"_

"To put him in debt? Take him somewhere else-"

"_Murderer!_" The paramedic screamed again, and then looked straight at one of the female surgeons crowding the gurney. They weren't moving, they looked torn between duty and orders. "Maria! We took oaths, remember?"

In that moment, the Captain wasn't sure what came over him. He thought he felt General Vargas touch his arm and the next moment there was just this burning heat in his blood, this endless noise in his skull as things he hadn't even known he'd been aware of flooded his mind and came out his mouth:

"You there!" A hospital could not refuse emergency medical aid, what kind of establishment didn't have precautious or reserved funds for life-saving treatment in these situations? He wasn't aware that he was speaking until he was already standing tall and booming the law at the man in the suit. He just barely noticed the General touching one of the surgeons and spurring the entire team into action, and that was only because the man in the suit broke eye-contact with him to yell at them again:

"_Bring him back!_" When the suit turned away to go after them, the Captain grabbed him quickly by the arm and was almost knocked down with the force he used to wheel around on him. "You! This isn't a police state, the army has no right to-!" _Air Force._

"He has every right to enforce the law!" The female paramedic was at his side in an instant, black eyes flaring and angry words flying from her lips. "Blood and death are just money to you!"

"This is a business-"

"This is a sanctuary!" The woman interrupted, and she didn't stop: "At least it was before you dirty _terroni_ came up from the south and _stole_ this hospital from the good people who built it!"

"I would hardly call it stealing when a new oncology department is being contracted," the suit hissed back, enough venom dripping off his words to imply that this was not the first time he'd had to deal with the issue. "Or would you rather see all of that money go towards new ambulance bays for you to clog with your complaints?"

If the hospital had an emergency bay, then they had to accept emergency patients. What kind of criminal would expect payment at such a critical moment? It stank of something more likely to occur in the south, not here in Tuscany. The officer released the other man when he jerked his arm free, watching him straighten his black jacket with a tug before regarding them with a scowl. He seemed so self-assured and powerful, it was difficult to feel anything but contempt. With a flash of insult as he was eyed dismissively and then ignored the Captain straightened up slightly, not ashamed of a few missing inches of height. Whatever he lacked in stature he knew he made up for in simple presence.

Not unlike General Vargas.

"This is private property, leave." The man dismissed them, and he turned on his heel only to find himself facing down the General himself. It shocked the officer as much as the suit: neither of them had seen him move in like that, and even Airman Bernardi must not have noticed it because he was standing several feet off. The woman next to the Captain gave a small gasp, but before she could say anything the suit gave General Vargas a disgusted once-over and made a broad gesture with one hand.

"And what do you want, eh, Corporal?"

The General slapped him.

"Try again…"

"I should have you_ arrested!"_

"It's him…" It wasn't a nose-breaking slap, the General barely put his arm behind it. The goal wasn't pain, it was insult and a little bit of humiliation. "I wasn't sure but- it's really him!"

"What?" Looking across at the paramedic standing beside him, the others from her team were uneasily watching from the back of the ambulance. Chief Airman Bernardi came storming up to the General's right, keeping silent and half a step back, but every inch a military man despite his sleepless grey eyes.

"It's him, the man from that night-"

"Younger son..?" What? General Vargas' voice was very quiet, like it hurt to use. Listening to both of them at the same time was impossible as the woman whispered and the General just couldn't speak up. The Captain focused on his superior, forced to ignore the awed words from next to him. General Vargas' scarred face was tilted to the side, his red hair still tied up behind his head and held in place by the stiff brim of his hat. "Educated… no rank?" What was he talking about? He had such a critical, evaluating look in his eyes that- "Fuck-up."

Oh.

"Bite your tongue!"

"Failed something…" Wherever he was getting these words, they were rubbing the other man's nerves raw. He was doing something to read him like an open book, he somehow knew exactly who this person was and how to slide neatly under his skin. "Hot blooded." With such a frightening look teasing the corner of the General's mouth, it was painfully clear that he knew exactly what he was doing. There was nothing reckless or insane, it was just powerful. "Disappointment?"

"Who the hell do you think you-!"

The man moved forward and General Vargas' right hand powered up before Bernardi or the Captain could respond. He attacked with the heel of his palm and all they heard was the loud smack of hand on chin. The suit collapsed with a startled groan, landing hard on the pavement with one hand protecting his bruised jaw.

"Name them." The General hissed, and his smile was still sitting perfectly in place. "In Florence. Tell me." His lips didn't look like they could stretch much further without splitting open along the white scars framing his mouth. The power was still there, saturating the space around him while meticulously bound by his lack of gestures or body language, just that smile and unblinking brown eyes staring down at the man on the pavement.

"You're crazy!" No, the Captain knew just by watching what was in front of him. This was not insanity, it was all planned, all carefully orchestrated in a way he couldn't fit together or understand. If chance had played a part in this then it was only in the path the ambulance had taken and the way it had crossed with theirs.

And who was the General asking for? It terrified him, but somehow he already knew. There was no evidence, at least nothing that could be used in court, but it came to him, slowly, in pieces: a gold ring on the man's right hand, his strong Campanian accent, the way he had held himself with arrogance despite three soldiers and a doctor staring him down. He'd thought himself untouchable, but with a kick to the shoulder to roll him over, the man found himself with a heavy foot on his chest and a General breathing down on him from a low crouch.

He took the man's tie in one gloved hand and used it to crane his head up painfully, and where there had been only intimidation before, now there was an acute sense of danger.

"Then give them _mine_…"

The Captain had to step forward, not to stop what he was seeing, but so he could hear those rasping words as they were breathed past scarred lips.

"Tell them I will burn them-"

"They'll kill you!" That was as good as a confession.

"They've tried…" And those were a promise. The officer stopped before he could intrude too far on the exchange, he wasn't frightened, but he would not get between them. "It's my turn, and like they did, I will start with the children."

"W-What? Why would you-?" They all watched the General use his free hand, which seemed slow and clumsy for some reason, reach into the man's jacket and pull out his wallet from the breast pocket. He left the ID cards and money alone, withdrawing only what the Captain assumed was a photo before flashing the image for the prone man to see.

His next words were cold poison:

"I will nail them, one by one, to the walls. And I will use their blood to write every name of every victim the godfathers have touched." He hadn't spoken this much at once all night, but as much as the words sounded like they were bleeding in his throat, they came and they didn't stop: "I will forgive no one, I will spare no one. Tell them: if they harm my children, North Italy will burn them. Tell every man, from scum like you, to the boss at every table, that if they hurt my family again: General Feliciano Vargas of Venice will cut off the hands of their daughters, and feed fathers the ashes of their sons."

The Captain didn't know what to do with those words. Part of him couldn't shake the fact that one crippled man couldn't do what he was swearing, but the rest of him was convinced, in every possible way, that he spoke the truth. The way General Vargas crumpled that picture in his hand and tossed it down on the prone man was like a promise, and no matter how much pain he was in when he made himself stand up on his own, he managed to turn away and carry himself back towards the jeep.

"Protect him." The Captain and the paramedic shared a quick glance with each other, and then the officer looked back at where the man in the suit was barely sitting up on the ground, still reeling from his assault and those words.

"I don't think I have to." Touching the brim of his hat in her direction, the Captain quickly started walking to catch up with his superior. Chief Airman Bernardi was already there, popping open the passenger side door for the General so he could climb in first.

Running away and making an exit were two different things, and with the suit carefully picking himself up by the time the jeep began turning and carried them out of the emergency lane, this was not a retreat. The Captain wasn't exactly sure what it had been, but there was a small adrenaline high humming in the back of his head as he drove.

Concern quickly started nagging at him though, because when he glanced over at the other man General Vargas had his eyes closed and head pressed back against the support on his seat. He had one hand pressed tight against his side like it hurt, teeth locked and breaths shallow trying to keep them quiet.

"Water, sir?" A plastic bottle was offered from the back-seat, and the General took it with one shaking hand, cracking the seal under his palm. He swallowed so fast he choked a little and had to bow his head, wrist over his mouth as he gave several deep, wracking coughs.

"Should I pull over-?" A waving hand told him to keep going, the coughs subsiding for a moment. But when he tried to speak again:

"Bol-" he was immediately cut off by more coughing, covering them faster this time as the Captain glanced up and met the Chief Airman's gaze in the rear-view mirror. Should they stop? They couldn't very well go back to that hospital, but…

"At this time of day, traffic should be light on the road to Bologna." General Vargas didn't respond, and that seemed like permission to put them on the highway again.

Whatever had happened back there couldn't have waited for them to pull over and get some rest. The Officer and Enlisted changed places before reaching the highway, and General Vargas fell asleep in his seat before they were even past the city limits.

* * *

Master Sergeant Alfred F. Jones had, off the record, served in every major war involving American men, women and interests since the nation's fight for independence in 1775. The United States of America had been founded on the principles of a Republic, a true democracy in which no one citizen possessed any more right or sway in the election of the government or in the behaviour of that government.

Over three hundred years ago, Alfred F. Jones had sworn off the inspirational power of nationhood. There were passive effects of being a nation: his excitement was infectious, his presence was inspiring, just having him sit in the back of a room where policy was being discussed could shift a discussion towards big pictures and grandiose ideas. America was a nation of progress, innovation, dedication, and exploration, but he refused to meddle.

He hated meddling. He hated it. He had, all of once, made that critical error and breached his own code of ethics. Only once in his half a millennium of life had Alfred F. Jones stood up and told good men: "yes, go forward and do this for me, fight for me, America". He had done it once, and he had almost destroyed himself with the trauma and guilt of watching his children rip themselves apart and murder their own brothers, slaughter their sisters, and hang their own parents.

Alfred F. Jones had fought in every war his armies had ever engaged in save that one bloody massacre of broken spirits and shattered souls, and he had taken complete responsibility for it. Alfred F. Jones could tap the power of nationhood and live again after gun shots and cannon fire, he could muck through trenches and over live artillery buried in the mud, he could escape sinking ships and planes plummeting out of the sky. Alfred F. Jones would fight with his men, but he would never sway his leaders again. Not after that war. Not after that gunshot in a D.C. theatre killed the human whose mind had already been festering with the effects of a nation's poisonous touch. Not after he'd poisoned that man just to stop that agonizing, bone-splintering civil-war.

The greatest men were almost always nation-touched. He'd probably touched Washington by accident the same way he'd boomed to Lincoln on purpose. He knew Canada had whispered regularly to the Prime Minister who'd brought his constitution home from England, and that England in turn had helped the Iron Lady draft and deliver her speeches. He knew for a fact that the leader who had started Russia's bloody revolution had been chosen by him, but his successor who had led the Soviet Union through the Second World War had _not._

America had decided long ago that he would not, unless his very existence was in danger, effect the men and women in his government the way his peers felt entitled to. What was the point of a democracy if one citizen could stand up and force hearts to obey him? That wasn't human strength or power, that was corruption at its worst. If America spoke to a crowd and changed their minds to match his, irrespective of age, gender, race, religion or any other defining aspect of their unique identities, then he would only violate his own constitution and everything he stood for. Free will, free choice, free action.

So he'd been fired from his work at the White House, that was fine. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last.

"Alfred…" This, "I don't know what to say…" This was a first.

Master Sergeant Alfred F. Jones had been fired from his position as a bureaucrat before, it happened every other administration really. But he had never, not once-

"It's out of my hands. You've no idea how hard I tried to fight this, and I mean that, but I'll lose my own job if I go any further and you know I can't afford to do that right now.

"I understand."

"I'm sorry, sir."

He had never once been discharged from his own military.

"Explain it to me again though, I… I don't think…" He was wearing his uniform, pressed and clean and proper, suiting his rank despite the fact that there were over thirty years of shared military experience between himself and the human behind the desk. The Major grasping for words and shaking his balding head had commanded troops in Iraq, had gone into battle during Desert Storm, had taken command and diplomatic positions around the world, and this was the first time the Nation had seen him shaken.

"It… It's that damned jet." Oh god he didn't want to hear this. "Lieutenant Matheson's already facing a Court Marshall, they're just cracking down on the chain of command as hard as they can." They: men from Washington, officials Alfred had worked beside and whose jobs he'd outlined himself at some point or another.

"I was within my rights to request our involvement in that." It had been a UN co-ordinated attack, there was nothing for Washington to stick their nose in. "No Americans were injured, I mean- I was, but-" The only injured human had been the first Italian pilot, and just thinking about that made him realize-

"The President's office has already put a stop to the honours ceremony you wanted." _No_. The Major's pained expression didn't ease the blow, in that moment America didn't care how genuine the man felt, this was wrong. "Word from the top is that right now this country can't afford to honour foreign men, especially not from a mission where a sixteen million dollar jet crashed into the Swiss Alps." America's economic troubles could not be swayed by sixteen million measly dollars.

"So they're taking it out on a good man?" America wasn't referring to himself, he meant the pilot who was having the recognition he deserved hidden away and buried somewhere in a filing cabinet. "My security budget can easily afford…" wait… "Why that look, Major?" America struggled to smile, it was a fight he was determined to win, even when his teeth started to hurt and the aching in his heart wouldn't go away.

"They saw your name on the file, sir…" Master Sergeant Alfred F. Jones, he'd signed several of the authorizing documents. "Washington has questions, sir, and so do I- but different ones." Really? What could he possibly want to ask him? "Like why doesn't the President know who you are, sir?" Why? Why didn't the President understand why a decorated Major was calling a 22 year old boy "sir"?

America took a breath, aware that it was getting harder to see through the film of tears he wouldn't shed. He tried staring behind the Major at the wall with all his files and books, family portraits and children's art all cluttered in the back. He took comfort in the familiar icons, and spoke.

"The President believes in an America that is static and omnipresent." Not necessarily a bad thing, just a little off the mark. "He believes in this… incredibly passive force, like the ocean: undeniable but without sense or intention. And I can be that, it's just hard sometimes." It was hard to be the blurred face in the crowd, there and gone with the swell of traffic lights and timed schedules. "He wants the figurehead of America to be the Presidential office, so he's drowning this personae in red tape and legislation. But this is what I wanted too." Or at least he had. "I wanted this back all those years ago when I didn't… When I didn't know what I wanted, really."

He'd wanted it back when it had occurred to him that it was wrong for England to sail across the sea and tell him what to do, and for America in turn would tell his people. When he'd realized that even if he made the decisions himself, it was still wrong to just say "we will go west!" and not ask or consider what that meant to the fragile human beings who lived out his orders and dreams. He hadn't wanted that way, that strength: he hadn't believed in it. He still didn't. He couldn't risk that bloodshed again.

He couldn't wash himself in blood again… Human blood, nation blood, brothers and sisters and children all rotting under the sun and trapped between cold, icy white walls…

"It's been a true honour, Mr. America." The Major stood and America followed suit, they clasped hands and shook, hard and friendly, nation to soldier, and America felt the tears touch his lips when he smiled. "I pray my son serves beside you the way I've had the honour, sir. Please take care, and, do you have any idea where you're going next?"

"I, uh…." Tennessee, California, Wisconsin, Alaska, Oregon, Missouri, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Florida, Kentucky… "I think… Italy." Naples, maybe. He'd go to Naples… just for a little while. "I have… family…" Family he shouldn't be bothering, mentors he had to just leave alone, but… "Or Canada, but- yeah, Italy."

"Godspeed, sir."

"You've made me proud, son."

He… would go see Italy.

* * *

**Not my fault I read Titus Andronicus in school, they made us do it, it was on the reading list.**

**The guy in the earlier chapters was Calabrian, this one was Campanian, they're two different regions and not a typo (just in case anyone thought it was).**

**I couldn't find any Air Force-specific medals in the Italian references I used, so the Gold Cross for Valor seemed most appropriate for Mr. Captain person. As always, thanks to Pochigi for helping me with names and weird stuff!**

**See everyone on Sunday!**


	29. Hellspawn

**None Can Die, Starvation, Tristan, Paper Stars.**

**This is the chapter Lovi got his claws in and refused to let go of. Tumblr knows of this chapter.**

**Also, for those of you willing to brave it, two scrapped chapters of Recovery were placed on my tumblr blog under the "Recovery Spare Content" button. These chapters contain the original plan for Feli's development and the GerIta subplot that has been very quietly not letting itself manifest in this version of the story. Check it out for cutie babies!**

**Right and: AUSSIE ANON I BLAME YOU. This is what happens when consistent reviewers make themselves known to me, I add content I didn't actually need because hey-why-not! Click-Clock and Reporter D get bonus points for catching the reference, because I was very very worried about it (although I don't know why...).**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Hellspawn

"So he's going to be okay? How?"

"Look, I don't know, okay?" Romano wanted these Micro-nations out of Italy. He'd boot them across the border if he had to, he just needed them gone. "I just came up from the god-damned morgue, give me a minute will you?"

"This is important to us too!" Having them follow him around the hospital cafeteria was not helping the throbbing pain in his skull right now. Who was the stupid British kid again? "My name is Sealand and I'm not British!"

"Should you really be eating after what you saw down there?" The other one, tall, dirty-blonde and wearing an obnoxious indigo cape, decided to peer right over Romano's shoulder as he unwrapped a stale hospital sandwich and shoved one corner of the so-called panini in his mouth. It wasn't even worth it to chew and swallow before turning around to look at the three of them: the black-haired American, the pseudo-Australian, and the short not-British kid.

"I haven't eaten in twenty hours, I haven't slept in thirty-six. You wanna help me?" Digging one hand into his pocket, his right hand maneuvered the dry food up to his mouth for another starved bite. Romano flashed a ten euro note at the three and watched the posh one with the bandage over his cheek fold his arms. "Go across the street and get me a not-shit coffee from that café." Not that caffeine would make his headache any better, unless it was just withdrawal he was feeling, but Romano wasn't holding out much hope.

"Don't you have soldiers to do that?" Australia's whelp needed to watch that attitude because Romano was in no mood to cater to him. He'd just spent all morning at his brother's bedside, it was just past noon and what had been waiting for him down in the morgue had done things to his insides that he wasn't quite comfortable with. It was hard to see someone with almost the exact same head-wound as Seborga, especially a human, especially a woman.

The man with three bullets in his back had made his blood boil though. Romano had almost ordered the tattoos burned off his corpse before throwing it in the sea- but they couldn't do that. As much as he wanted to, that southern son of his was going to find his way home and into a family plot. It made Romano sick just thinking about it, his skull was getting ready to split open from the stress.

"They're off doing useful shit, you three are just standing here bothering me." So if he didn't get that coffee then he'd choke on this terrible bread, and maybe a bottle of water would do more to help stop the throbbing.

"Fine- fine! I'll do it." The blonde boy with sad blue eyes and a wrinkled green sweater grabbed the money and turned to look up at his friends. The American in the black leather jacket just kind of shook his head, but it was that tall guy from the southern hemisphere the boy was worried about. "Hutt? Do you want anything?"

"No." _Pissy little shit._ Romano would have to call Australia later, which would be a pain because he was notorious for treating his Micro-nations like family. Not that they weren't, but…

The two of them stood there for a few moments just prodding the one guy with the cape, and Romano ignored them to go back to the little food stand and pick up a bottle of water.

He was waiting under the bright lights for the Sergeant to come back. The sun had already burnt through the clouds from that morning so there was sunlight streaming in from windows and a skylight over their heads, the rays bouncing off the pale linoleum flooring and washing out the colours on the food labels and hospital scrubs. Romano handed over a few more euros to pay for the liquid before he cracked the seal and gulped down several mouthfuls of water, the light was killing him.

The girl behind the counter didn't say anything, but when he got ready to walk away a tug on his sleeve brought him back around to a pair of sad brown eyes. He looked hurt and weary enough for a northern girl to reach out and unexpectedly touch his face, and South Italy was actually tired and shaken enough to lean into the affectionate gesture and close his eyes for a moment.

China was right and that scared him, but Romano had been too far away from the general Italian population for too long. They could sense it, and he missed them, and he didn't want to think about how much Veneziano must have been hurting from it too…

"Please be okay." She whispered, and South Italy's answer was to take her hand when it began to slip and gently turn it over, placing a kiss against the backs of her fingers before trying to smile. The emphasis was on try, because when he managed to turn around again and found that Australian Micro-nation standing in front of him, his strength and patience were wearing thin.

"Can we see him now?" Who did he think he was trying to impress with that stern look and hard-line mouth? "Please, we waited for you to come and now-"

"He didn't ask for you." So Romano wasn't even going to entertain the idea. "That's my rule: if he doesn't ask for you, he doesn't see you."

"I didn't want him to go in there." Well that was too bad. None of them had been close enough to stop it, so Romano wasn't going to hear about how sorry they were that it had happened. Drinking more of his water, he made himself chew and swallow more of the sandwich he'd bought. Romano looked past the desperate face of the younger man in front of him and saw his Sergeant come out from around a corner: time to go.

"Hutt…" The American, hmm, it was hard not to like him just because of his accent and origins, but that was a dangerous game to play with Micro-nations. This man was not "American" in the normal sense, so when he set a hand on his "Australian" friend's shoulder, Romano tried cutting away from both of them.

Then he stopped short, because something occurred to him.

"Hey, do those work?" Ah, he was being such a dick asking something like this right now, but both Micro-nations blinked and looked at him. He was pointing with one finger at the sunglasses perched on top of the almost-American's black hair. "These damned lights are giving me a headache, I might send your little friend to get me a pair."

"Sealand is _not_ your errand boy!" Watch your _mouth,_ Australian.

"And I'm this close to either having you thrown out of this hospital, or shoved on a plane back to your continent." His hands were full, Romano didn't get to gesture how close _this close_ was, but he didn't have to. "I don't think you understand what it means to make yourself useful, so why don't you just shut up instead?"

"This wasn't our fault!"

"Hutt- Hutt stop it." The American jumped between them but Romano wasn't angry enough to take a swipe at the tantruming two year old. He wasn't angry at all, really. Of course he was irritated, but he just didn't have it in him to waste what little energy he had on someone who was completely and utterly insignificant. "Stop, please stop, you know this won't help." No it wouldn't, it hadn't, and it wasn't about to. "Here, Mr. Italy just-"

Romano watched and was surprised when the American whipped the sunglasses off his head and held them out to him. He'd mentioned wanting a pair, but that was a little excessive, no?

"If it's the only way to help then take them, please, we only tried to help." He took them, holding the light plastic frames by two fingers like they'd turn into a mouse and try to bite him. They were cheap things now that he actually had them close enough to inspect, he could find better in no time at all.

But putting them on instantly cut the harsh florescent glare down to something his exhausted eyes could handle. Downing the last of his water, Romano tossed the bottle into the bin next to him and wrapped up what remained of his terrible sandwich for later. It was nice to actually be able to open his eyes without feeling the drum beat on the sides of his skull. The slender black lenses didn't block all of the light, but they also weren't quite as opaque as Romano had mistaken them for.

"Sir, he's ready to see you." The Sergeant was next to him and Romano nodded, looking away from the two Micro-nations as the taller one, Molo-something, had his hands on his friend's shoulders and was fighting to keep him from losing his temper.

"Let's go." The Sergeant nodded and Romano had barely gone four steps when he heard:

"So southern _mobsters_ attack and kill our friend, and _South Italy_ blames us?" Oh.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

_South Italy_ was not playing this fucking game right now.

"Listen, I don't know who you think you are-" Ah, the Sergeant spoke English, that was nice. Romano set a hand on the man's shoulder when he turned around to confront the pair, cutting him off gently while he pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and thumbed across the screen. He didn't turn around to look at the pair, he just heard the almost-American groan something about the other needing to just shut up.

There was a text message icon hovering in the corner, but Romano ignored it as he found a name and call button instead, lifting the device to his ear.

China said he didn't have a politically-savvy bone in his body, and Romano was okay with that.

"_Hello? I was just gettin' to bed, Italy, what's-?"_

"Ciao, Australia."

"Damn it, _no!_"

"_Hutt! Christ, stop it!"_

He didn't have to be political because being honest could take him just as far, and so could being firm, nevermind just not giving a fuck: "I want you to contact your officials in Rome and tell them one of your citizens will be waiting for them in an Italian holding cell."

"..._Shit."_ Because honesty just happened to work on young nations like this one, and he didn't care what kind of racket the Micro-nation behind him was trying to make because Australia couldn't hear it and just got on with it._ "Do you mean like citizen-citizen or something else?" _

"Something else." Some_one_ else. "Unless you can convince your loud-mouth son to bite his tongue and go home like a good little boy." Australia groaned, and before he could ask anything else or Romano could let the words he wanted to say bubble up through his throat, he ended the call with a light tap on the sensitive screen. He could practically hear the temper getting ready to snap behind him, but he didn't turn around.

"I am not a _child-!_" And _there_ was the ring-tone he could guess was coming from the Australian's pocket. England's old colony worked fast when he wanted to, he had a parent's ear when it came to listening for his children in danger.

"No, you're a Micro-nation." Romano stated, scrolling through a few menus to find that message he'd skipped over. He still wouldn't turn around and look at them, it was beneath him to give them this much acknowledgement. "You're small and weak, you're barely recognized, and yet you seem to think you're more entitled than half of Europe." So if he didn't pick up that call and do exactly what Australia said… "Sergeant, they're your business now. If he doesn't leave, escort him. If he resists, arrest him."

"Yes sir."

"What's going on..?" The not-British boy was back, and Romano took the tiny paper cup out of his hands, waving off the change left over from paying for the drink. The boy's blue eyes were locked on the tension and fighting behind Romano, and the Nation just cared that there was liquid energy hiding under the plastic lid as he lifted the cup for inspection.

Espresso? Good choice. Behind him he could hear muffled English words with a heavy Australian accent pouring into a one-way conversation, and without a look back or an explanation for England's not-brother, Romano started walking again.

Black espresso was too bitter even for him, but Romano sipped the caffeine-heavy brew and moved quickly down the white corridors looking for the hospital's chapel. The stark colour wasn't lost on him, but behind the sunglasses he'd been given the environment was a bit easier to handle. There were several turns he had to make to get there, travelling to an entirely different wing of the complex, but he knew he'd be able to find his way back to Seborga's room as soon as he was done.

As frustrating as it was, Romano stopped again just as he was about to push the chapel door open, because he looked down at the text message staring up at him on the screen:

**Is he okay?**

He didn't know that number. It wasn't programmed into his phone, and Romano took another quick drink of his coffee before awkwardly sending back an answer. This message was only about ten minutes old…

**Who wants to know?**

…Shit, he couldn't just stand out here waiting for a ghost to answer him, there was a human just past these doors that he- the phone dinged:

**I do.**

Why was everyone intent on messing with him today?

**And you are…?**

He had work to do, damn it. This wasn't San Marino's number, and even if the Vatican ever got a cell phone he'd probably need a month to figure out how to make a call, nevermind text people. Romano held the device in the palm of his hand for a few moments, swallowing more of the intensely bitter brew in his cup and hoping the combination of bad food and strong coffee wouldn't make him sick. _Ding._

**Vargas.**

No, no, no, stop. Just stop it, alright? He didn't need some joker sending his own name back at him.

**That's it?**

Hah, fuck you! No nation could just guess one of their human names. Romano only knew two others aside from his, but this strange person? If they sent back "Lovino" then he'd know it was someone trying to mess with him, and Luca's cell phone was dead and sitting on the table next to his hospital bed. He didn't know why he insisted on just standing out here though, so even if his phone went _ding _again, Romano slipped it into his pocket without checking the reply. He tipped his head back for the last of his coffee, and before the caffeine could crash on him he crumpled the cup in a fist and pushed open the swinging door.

The chapel was a quiet chamber, not a full church, with stained glass panels lit by electric lights, no candles, and simple white wood pews and a long black cross nailed to the far wall. There was probably a priest on duty somewhere, either a volunteer or hired by the hospital, but he wasn't here now and there was only one other man in the room.

Seborga's boss was kneeling in the first row in front of the holy symbol, Romano crossing himself out of simple respect before tossing his cup away in the trash and walking down the aisle. He didn't want this to take very long, he couldn't even remember what the human's name was supposed to be, and he just wanted to go back upstairs to his brother.

"Sir?" It was never easy to interrupt someone in the middle of a prayer, but Romano barely had to say the word before the man's head snapped up from where he'd bowed it over his folded hands. Seborga's boss was wearing a light grey suit, but it was wrinkled and looked like he'd been in it for more than a few days, his short hair slightly grey in the dim light. He wasn't wearing a tie when he quickly looked over his shoulder and then scrambled to his feet, but it surprised Romano when he left the row of benches behind and stood in the aisle in front of him, just a yard or two of distance between them.

"Tell me you aren't one of them." The nation kept his hands in his pockets and the human looked frightened. He _sounded_ frightened, he was speaking with a breathless tone of voice.

"No sir. I'm from the Government." He was about half the government, actually. "I just need you to talk to me for a bit. I'm very sorry for your loss, but-"

"No, I mean one of _them_." Ah, what? Romano frowned slightly and almost forgot he was wearing sunglasses: it wasn't actually that dim in here. The man was shaking his head and took an uneasy step back, lifting one hand slowly like he could block him. "Please, you probably don't understand, just-"

"I'm sorry, one of who?"

"Them: the _demons_." Um. Demons. Right.

But this man had seen his wife and at least one other person shot dead right in front of him. Romano didn't know a lot about him, but something like that usually shook a civilian to their core. He could be patient with him, even if he wasn't really Italian he wasn't that damned Australian.

"I think you should sit down, sir. Have you had anything to eat?" The food here was crap, but the human was looking more wide-eyed and scared. Romano'd asked the Sergeant to make sure he was calm and could handle being spoken to, but if he was this unstable then he'd have to send someone else to work with him. Romano couldn't afford to take days or weeks trying to coax answers out of him. "I'm not a, ah, demon, but I need you to talk to me about the men who took your wife away."

"She wasn't taken, she was murdered." Well that was blunt. Romano flinched a bit and wondered just how much of his face the sunglasses hid. "But those men, _they_ were taken." The human was rambling, this wasn't going to work.

"Taken by what?" But he had to try. "Sir, you can help this investigation by telling us what you know. How long have those men been visiting you? Do you know where they were staying in the area? Any information-"

"I can tell you that that beast lives alone in a house on the hill!" Wait, beast? There was no reason to shou- "I've worked with him for years, I actually _believed_ what he told me! A nation in one little body? More like the devil dancing in a corpse!" Oh no- "You didn't see it! You think I'm crazy!" No he didn't, he just- "That headless thing- with blood everywhere!" Stop, _stop_- "A monster. They should burn that building, salt the ground so it can't rise again! They're keeping it in this _hospital!" _Romano lifted both hands and tried to show he meant no harm, staring through the tinted lenses at a look of pure horror staring him in the face, life-altering terror shaking the human being's tiny world.

"Sir, I need you to calm down!" Oh God, why was he reacting like this? Seborga had been running off pure instinct after he'd been shot. The Micro-nations and his brother had told him so: Seborga had barely any memory of what had happened, and that Aussie twit had the bruises to show how hard it had been to stop him from rampaging.

But this was Seborga's boss, his prince. He wasn't supposed to shout devil and demon like this, he should have been in awe, or just confused, maybe even grateful. He should have been calling him an angel, a guardian, an avatar of God sent to protect what was his. That was what Italian ministers and Kings had called Romano for centuries, even the Spanish officials who had ruled him for half a millennium had looked on him with respect, especially after the violence of a war or rebellion. Patriots always saw God in their Nations, why else would they fight for King and Country? Why was this the reaction he was having?

"The Principality was badly injured, but he's not dead, your highness." Romano almost choked on the title, but that was just what happened when you tried to flatter a foreign politician. Highness, Majesty, Grace, all of those got stuck in the throat. "Once he's recovered a bit more, I'm sure-"

"It should be _dead!_" He just found himself staring now, because the shouting wouldn't stop. "This is what a couple hundred idealists in the mountains can do? They can create some immortal super-soldier, summon it from hell itself to do their bidding? This isn't what I agreed to! A mascot, _fine!_ Some boy to wear an old robe and sit in on council meetings, that's why I said I'd rule over. A demon? A devil? My soul is worth more than that!"

"It's an idea made real!" Calm down, calm _down!_ "You can't kill a nation's spirit with a bullet, I'm sorry you had to see him like that, but- but it…" Romano was struggling to find anything he could say. How the hell was he supposed to explain their existence to a man who was obviously and completely rejecting them? Where was he from? Who had he belonged to before Seborga? He certainly wasn't Italian, that sounded like French he was-

"Where were you born, sir?" He got a stupid look for asking, but Romano pushed for an answer. "Where? You must be a citizen of someplace other than Seborga."

"Monaco- a beautiful place." Then it made sense why Romano couldn't feel that heat in his gut, he couldn't reach down for the power to calm and compel this man for some kind of result. Even one of Veneziano's people would have been easier to satisfy. "But what does that have to do with anything! Monaco is a real place, it's not some imaginary-"

"_Don't!"_

He didn't mean to scream the word, but he had to. It pushed the criminals and their webs out of the picture completely, because something even more terrifying and wrong than the syndicates burrowing into his brothers' flesh flashed in front of him, and he had to stop that first.

"He is not imaginary." The human was staring at him and Romano tried to bring his voice back up to a proper pitch, swallowing air and filling his lungs with dread. "He's not some joke, or a prank, God wouldn't have given him life if that was all he was." Seborga had had many chances to slip away into the annals of history. He'd almost done it a few times, and there had been events where maybe Romano or Veneziano had sort of hoped he would just vanish, because that was what consolidating one kingdom out of many just required sometimes. But things were different now. In this century industries worked differently, money moved in new ways, borders didn't have the same meaning anymore: why else would the bloodbath of Europe have slowly started consolidating itself into one large Union? Seborga didn't have to die the way Genoa, Tuscany and Piedmont had been put to rest, he'd been too small during the unification and almost inconsequential since then.

But he was still _real._ And he was just too small to have his own monarch tell him he wasn't worth letting live. He was a Micro-nation, not big enough to feel the effects of most crises, but too small to survive the rare few that worked from the ground up to destroy a society. Between corrupted networks of theft and intimidation on the bottom and hateful, dismissive words spewed from the top, even San Marino or Lichtenstein would have had to worry about their health. For Seborga…

"You're one of them-" This human thought his brother didn't deserve to live? Did he think his precious Monaco was any different? If Romano put a bullet through her head did this human think Monaco would die out and collapse the way his precious wife had? He would never do something like that, but the thought occurred to him, and it stuck. "Oh God, you're one of _them!_"

Yes he was, and Romano was no puny Micro-nation either. With the sunglasses hiding whatever was burning in his eyes, the nation set his lips together firmly, chin up as he kept his tongue between his teeth so he wouldn't clench and grind his jaws together. He made his hands relax inside his pockets so they weren't bulging out at his hips, letting the black wool fall straight and narrow around his body.

The human was backing up slowly, panic clear on his face as he scrambled up the two shallow steps to get from the chapel floor to the low dais with the cross hanging high on the wall. Romano let him go and didn't chase after him, just shifted his stance so he knew he was taking up the middle of the aisle, blocking the only available exit.

Fuck you, China. Rome had taught the Vatican everything he knew about commanding attention and respect. In the Roman way it was all the better for it if respect bled into fear, so he seized both.

"I am." He'd said no when he'd thought the man meant mafia, or camorra, or any other crime organization sinking their claws into his brothers, but Romano would cut off his own arm before denying who and what he really was. And he would never be ashamed of using the power or authority he was calling on now: "And you will be held by the Italian authorities, for your own protection, while you co-operate with a federal investigation into the corrupt practices of the Seborgan administration."

"No- no which one are you? No!" Yes. Romano wasn't going to let this man go, and God help Monaco if she tried to fight him on this. God help France if he thought for a moment of getting involved on her behalf.

"You will be bound by a gag order concerning this investigation, barring you from speaking publicly on any topic referencing the Principality of Seborga. I don't care if you talk about me, sing to your heart's content, but you will leave my little brother alone or suffer for it in one of my prisons." He hissed the words without moving, back straight and voice carrying clearly in the quiet sanctuary. The human was terrified, animalistic fear weeping off his body like a heavy musk, too much emotional strife and physical exhaustion robbing him of all presence as a professional and politician.

_Good._

Romano didn't give his name, the man could barely take in enough air to keep himself going, nevermind gasp the question again. But right now he was the Italian Republic, and as he turned and strode sharply out of the room, his ears were roaring with the blood surging through his veins. He needed to find one of his officers and make sure the man in the chapel couldn't get away, Romano wouldn't let anything happen to him: the only people who would be better protected were his family members.

Speaking of whom, it was only as he came back out into the hall and felt the light needling him over the rim of the sunglasses that he heard the soft _ding_ in his pocket. It had taken the ghost writer this long to answer him, and South Italy pulled out the device with indignation ready to burst. But instead of that satisfying crescendo, he was met with:

**General Feliciano Vargas of the San Marco Quarter, of the city of Venice, of the region of Veneto, representative of the Northern Half of the Republic of Italy. Now answer me.**

Romano stared down at the message and punched in the only thing he could manage:

**About damned time.**

* * *

**I am no closer to finishing 32 than I was last week, except for the multitude of scrapped scenes settled between 32 and 34. I was not panicking before. I am panicking now.**

**Please review? next week, chapter 30!**


	30. The Strongest Bond

**Epica, False King, Tristan, Warlords, Tristan and Isolde, Decision of the Loved, World So Cold.**

**Edits performed and uploaded October 7****th****. Happy Canadian Thanksgiving!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

The Strongest Bond

"Please have a seat." Japan entered the small room adjacent to his home office, gesturing to the warm kotatsu already turned on and waiting for them to make themselves comfortable. The low wooden table sported a white blanket around the edge, soft cushions on the spring-like floor providing extra comfort as the two nations settled under the heater. "I must admit, I was surprised you wanted to detour here to my home instead of returning to Europe."

Spain just smiled at him from across the table, adjusting the blanket over his lap before folding his hands carefully on the wooden surface. He looked tired after their week in Hong Kong, but at least the flight from China's territory to Tokyo had been relatively brief. Spain was in need of a shower and some rest, so hopefully he would eat well tonight once Japan's assistant finished ordering their dinner- he made a point of not cooking on nights when he returned from overseas! And then Spain could rest well in the guest bedroom, and leave refreshed and ready for his flight home tomorrow morning.

But today, after their journey which had only taken one time-zone to complete, Spain had something important to discuss. He'd said on the way here that it could not be shared in Hong Kong, but now in the comfort of Japan's home it seemed safe.

"I…" But that didn't mean Spain could simply come out with it, because he averted his green eyes and took note of the potted fern Japan had growing in the corner. "I think I should begin with an apology."

"What for?" Japan returned the tired smile the other nation was wearing, a little uncomfortable kneeling in his suit, but he could change later. "I understand there was some tension between yourself and Mr. France, as well as Mr. Italy, but none of it seemed too far out of hand." As much as Japan might not have liked admitting it, watching two nations come to blows over some unknown matter wasn't too out of the ordinary.

"Because…" Spain tugged at the red tie looped around his throat, loosening the knot before Japan reached up for his own, leading the way so his guest knew it was alright to let appearances slip right now. This was a social meeting, wasn't it? Spain's boss and entourage had already left for Madrid. "Because I know in some eyes, what I'm about to do will seem selfish."

"Are you referring to your quarrel with Mr. France?"

"No." The European coiled the silk tie around his fingers, slowly looping it around and folding it into a bundle to stuff in his pocket. His coat had been hung up when they arrived, but his suit still looked neat despite their travels. "It's Romano I'm having difficulties with," Romano… it was uncommon to refer to Italy by that second name now. "Which is why I needed to talk to you."

"I will be honest with you, Italy and I have not spoken much over the last few months." It was a tender issue at the moment, but one Japan had been allowed to get away with thanks to the hectic economic climate in southern Europe. His government didn't expect him to make many gains from Italy, so there was no push from above for him to go and bother his one-time ally for consumer product deals and long-term trade. His economic health was in the EU's hands now, not Asia's.

"What about Germany?" Oh, now that was something Japan was more comfortable with answering. Yes, of course he had spoken to Germany, they had dined together several times during the conference. "Is he doing alright, for now?"

"For now, yes. I suppose." The way Spain phrased the question was troubling, not because of some cryptic allusion but because of the truth. Japan drummed his fingers on the dark wood in front of him, adjusting the blanket a bit more so the warm air beneath the kotatsu could heat him a bit more. February was fading and March would bring warmer weather soon, but for now it felt a bit cold in the house. "Valentine's day was… very difficult."

"I heard he spent it here with you." Yes. Germany had not wanted to remain in Berlin, so with Japan's permission he'd flown to Asia for a few weeks just prior to the conference. He'd worked like a dog so he didn't have to notice Japan's spin on the western celebration, and had only lost his composure once when Japan accidentally caught himself looking at something he'd tried to hide…

The list of "things to do at Japan's house after we escape!" was hanging on the wall behind Spain's head, and Japan's eyes drifted to it now. He'd taken and hidden it away in a drawer in his office while Germany was here, because something about the long white sheet had stuck out eerily when he found out Germany was coming. Sleep overs, saucepans, yukata and pillow fights. It was a happy, almost nonsensical list that hurt a little bit to read right now, but instead of only stinging the sight of it had blown Germany's wounds wide open.

Even Italy was coping with his brother's death better than Germany. He hadn't been forthcoming on the topic when Japan had mentioned it in Hong Kong, but he had only gone very quiet, not crumbled to tears and wordless pain.

"Japan, you've been keeping an eye on how money is moving in Europe at the moment, right?" Spain's voice pulled Japan out of the memories, letting the traditional tatami style of the room sooth him with calmer thoughts and his guest's immediate concerns.

"Of course. With America being so fickle lately, it's been for my own benefit. I have been making arrangements with Canada as well, but-" Spain waved his hand.

"No no, this isn't about North America, just Europe. Do you know the kind of role Germany has in the Union?"

"I'm not ignorant." Really, what kind of question was that? "Why?"

Spain's appearance had grown stern. Normally he had such a care-free look on his lean face, emphasized by the rampant bed-head and the way his black curls never sat the same way twice over his expressive eyes. It was rare to see him sit so straight, or with hands perfectly still in his lap, and even without his tie he seemed more set in his ways than Japan was used to dealing with. He took a deep breath, and began again:

"I'm sorry, Japan." Why? For what? "But Germany needs to know sooner rather than later. I've tried talking sense into Romano and he just won't listen to me." Why did he keep calling Italy by that name? There was no need to distinguish- "If there's even a chance he's right about this then I can't go to Germany myself, but I can't shake the feeling that if we leave everything to the last minute then it really will break him." Japan stopped asking questions in his mind, and he just let himself listen. "Portugal and I have just been granted bail-outs that we desperately needed, and I know Romano wants the same thing, but if all of this stress pulls Germany under then it will have been for nothing."

"Please, Spain." Spain was tense, and the more he spoke the more Japan recognized that he was starting to get angry. This topic was upsetting him and that, in turn, was upsetting the host. "Why don't I prepare something for us to drink? Perhaps some tea would be-"

"Japan Romano is lying to everyone: Veneziano isn't dead, North Italy's been in Rome for months."

He… What?

No.

No that-

"I've seen him myself. He's wretched, and Romano just won't-"

"Stop." Stop, stop, _stop this. _"Not again, Spain. I won't go through this again."

"Japan-" He raised a hand to cut off his guest, closing his eyes because the list hanging on his wall was reflecting the light back at him, glaring with white brilliance and the faded stain of blood.

"I will listen, just- _stop." _Stop. Stop and just- don't. "Italy… would not lie about this. He is my friend."

He didn't want to open his eyes again, but Japan made himself do it. He expected a scowl to mar Spain's face and for the European's anger to boil over and create an awful mess, but he was wrong to think that way. Instead, the look on Spain's face was pained and upset, his heart on his sleeve as he just watched and shook his head slowly.

"He was more than my friend, Japan, and he's a liar."

* * *

He hadn't known he knew them.

The woman in Florence: the one from the dark, bullet-riddled place and the smell of spilled wine and spoiled food. The one who yelled at the poison and tended the children.

The mother in Milan: from when the sunlight had peered through the wreckage, a gunshot in the haze of arson smoke. The one who stopped them on the dark street and said "you saved my son's life", and brought them home with her. The one who served them more food at her husband's table than they could eat, and who took great pains in cleaning and pressing the uniform pulled from Romano's closet. The woman with the son who asked what the difference was between an Officer and an Enlisted, because he was only sixteen but he still knew that he wanted to join the military.

The Chief Airman told him he should build models and fix things: become good with his hands.

The Captain told him he should read books, as many as he could find: become good with his thoughts and his words.

The General told him he should learn to cook: because the people at your table were the ones you should fight for.

They all told him to join the Air Force, and the next morning they found the banker in Turin.

It was the banker from Verona: the one with the little girl's tears and hands shaking in fear. The one who worked behind a desk with a darkness over his shoulders. The one who said "I know nothing" while slipping a card with toxic names to him in confidence.

He hadn't known he knew them, but he did, and he didn't know how in a dream they could still love him.

* * *

Monday arrived with stress and phone-calls, but Romano wasn't about to leave the San Reno hospital unless he had to.

He knew from Papa that Veneziano had gone off the map, but then he'd learned from Veneziano yesterday that he'd been en-route to Milan for who-the-fuck-knew-why. That had all been consolidated yesterday, and the nerves Romano still felt stabbing his gut when he thought about what his brother was seeing or experiencing in his cities kept him from trying to call him. It was nothing short of a miracle that Veneziano was willing to text him, and Romano just wasn't willing to try pushing for a phone-call.

His brother hadn't called him out on anything yet, but the storm was coming, he could feel it. It just got worse when he realized from his brother's sparse, briefly-worded texts that while he was swooping across his territories he'd missed the entire Veneto region by a mile. He reached Florence, Bologna, Modena, Parma, and then he'd spend the night in Milan and left early today for Turin. He couldn't have been lingering for more than an hour in each city if, by noon on Monday, he was on the barely restored E717 highway headed south.

Romano didn't know if he was going to continue west to San Reno or cut east to Genoa before doubling back, but he didn't want to ask. The humans he was travelling with, because there had to be humans, must have been dead on their feet by now.

"Shut it down." Between texts to and from Veneziano, Romano was on the phone. "This is an order from General Vargas: shut it down and arrest everyone involved! I don't care who they are."

He was starting to find the hospital claustrophobic, which was why it was nice that Seborga asked for one of his friends to come see him. The almost-American and the not-British boy were still around, because they knew when to shut up and stay out of his face, but the Pseudo-Australian was back on his way home after the Commonwealth nation who owned him had verbally wrestled him into submission: something about passports.

Smoking was a bad habit that didn't affect their kind, so Romano was indulging in one of the few things that actually helped keep him calm in a crisis. Not that this was really at crisis level anymore- except for the gunmen who were at large and the dead-ends they were running into identifying the scum-bag in the morgue. He didn't even know which organization they were dealing with, nevermind the family.

Even if he wanted to investigate it himself, Romano found his instructions to the men cracking down on the so-called Seborgan "Referendum" interrupted by a call from Japan.

But, family or friends? Family. He ignored the call and went back to pacing back and forth outside the hospital doors, giving instructions and finally hanging up once things were underway. Technicalities rarely worked with these kinds of organizations, but there was a chance this time, and it was a good one: can't hold a vote like this without consultation in Rome, or something. Romano wasn't even sure what the excuse was anymore. Maybe they'd just arrest everyone on suspicion of murder because there was a dead woman involved now. No charges would be filed for Seborga's assault, but Monaco would want answers for her daughter.

He didn't honestly care how it happened so long as it ended the way he wanted, because when he saw that military jeep coming up the hospital's long drive Romano couldn't afford another blunder right now.

He crushed his cigarette under one foot and breathed out the last of the smoke in his lungs, hurrying under the bright winter light so he was standing at the edge of the sidewalk. It was hard to see through the jeep's tinted windows, but as the vehicle rolled to a stop the passenger-side door popped open and Romano saw exactly who he expected.

The uniform was a jarring, but Papa had warned him about that already. It was the cane that surprised him. There wasn't anything special about it: just black metal with a rubber stopper on the end and a straight handle at the top. Veneziano didn't rest all of his weight on it the way England had hobbled around on his for months, it was just there to touch the pavement and keep him steady as he climbed down from the high seat inside. He was wearing the same style coal-black wool coat Romano had on, but he actually had the uniform underneath that went with it: Romano had only taken his because it was the warmest one he'd owned for the trip to Hong Kong.

"He's just this way, I-" Romano expected his little brother to storm right past him without a word, or maybe push him aside and walk off with disdain, but Veneziano looked him straight in the eye instead. His brother didn't like direct eye-contact, it unnerved him too easily now, but he just stood there and looked right at him. It brought them both to a standstill and for a moment Romano didn't know why he heard the jeep still making noise, but then there was a human standing next to them.

Romano tried to look at the man in the uniform, but Veneziano's hand reached out and touched his shoulder before he got half-way there. He looked for judgement, anger, and maybe even a bit of hate in the dark brown hovering in front of him, but his brother just stood there with his lips slightly parted, and Romano felt his gaze slowly trickle down his face, taking in his appearance like it frightened him.

When Veneziano reached up for his nose it confused him even more, but then the sun started shining in his eyes and everything was washed in the white glare reflecting off the building behind them.

"Shit, I forgot." The sunglasses, they'd found a comfortable spot on his nose to sit and he hadn't taken them off all day. Blinking rapidly trying to make his eyes adjust, Veneziano visibly relaxed, soothing himself to a point where he seemed calmer than he'd been in months. It didn't make any sense and it certainly wasn't fair, but it eased a bit of the guilt still pooling in Romano's heart. The sympathetic look his little brother gave him was just confusing though, what did he have to look sorry for?

"I know this is my fault." And he knew he had to fix it. Romano would find time somewhere to prep for that next summit in London in three weeks' time, but he'd handle this first. Taking care of problems here for his brothers would be his first priori-

"Did you… try?" It- the world just stopped for a moment. The sun became so bright and the rattle of the engine nearby drowned him in noise. And he couldn't think, Romano only stared.

Veneziano didn't repeat his question, he was just watching him. None of the concern leaked out of his eyes or faded as he stood there, but he did begin to slowly rest his weight on the cane he was holding. Romano couldn't think past the way those words had almost sounded like they belonged to him. The accent had been right, the emphasis all there, but the words were like something familiar all covered in sand, and once he moved beyond the simple sound of them their meaning began to hurt.

"You-" His eyes were tearing up and Romano couldn't stop it, something about being an easy read and- "Captain-" he could barely read the shoulder marks through the liquid screen stinging his eyes, but he managed it. "You're dismissed. Go anywhere." Anywhere at all, he didn't care. The human made a motion like a salute and Veneziano touched his chin to make Romano look at him again, or try to look, his face was all a big blur now.

"_Of course I tried_…" He whispered, because his throat was closing up and he couldn't keep his voice level, it broke half-way through the whimper. "I'm still trying." He'd never stopped- "I didn't want this, so every single day, I-" Veneziano brought both hands up to cup his face, and Romano closed his eyes when he felt his brother's forehead press against his.

"Then you tried…" And his tears just started coming, and he couldn't stop them. He'd tried and he'd failed because he just wasn't good enough for this- "So don't stop."

"I'm sorry, _I'm so sorry…"_ They were in his cities and his towns, they were in his industries and buying up his properties, they were choking and flooding and starving his markets all at the same time. They were making him sicker and weaker than the Mansion and the Monster could have ever hoped, and it was all Romano's fault, and he couldn't even try squeezing him tight in a hug to keep him all together. _"I'm trying, I'm trying I swear to God- I knew it was happening but I didn't know how to stop it- I don't know how to stop it, Veneziano. I'm sorry, and I-"_

His brother kissed him. It was lips to lips and it was the most affectionate touch his little brother had given him in months. It was innocent like children who didn't know what kissing meant, just that one was hurt and the other wanted to help, because that was what this moment was. Romano just wanted to keep his eyes closed and be the one to fall asleep this time, because it was his brother brushing away the tears, and he was the one who slowly took away the comfort of those lips. His brother wouldn't hug but he would kiss him, and he kept holding Romano's face and kept him close, not close enough, but it was all he was allowed to have.

Romano heard a plastic click, and he pulled his face away a little bit when he felt something dull pushing against his temples. He didn't get a chance to wipe the tears from his eyes before the sunglasses were put back in place, his fingers knocking the lenses sideways as he tried to pull the water off his lashes. It hurt, but he was okay with seeing the wet shine on his brother's eyes before the shades slid back into place. Veneziano looked like he was weighing something in his mind, the lump in his throat moving up and down a few times before he pulled his lips apart again and spoke.

"They… look good." It was more like a whisper, but it was words. It was something Veneziano was saying to him, and after too many months of silence Romano leaned in to kiss his brother's cheek in thanks.

"Do you want to see him?" The fog of concern seemed to burn away when he asked the question. Veneziano straightened up slightly, eyes widening like he'd forgotten why he was here, and he nodded quickly. Romano reached down for his hand and he watched his little brother tug his hat back in place where it had nearly fallen off his head when their faces touched. Veneziano had hooked the cane over his right elbow and maneuvered it back into his grasp now, already comfortable with it and ready to go.

Despite the General's star he was wearing or the cigarette smoke still clinging to Romano's clothes, they threaded their fingers together like children and one brother led the other inside.

* * *

It was… The most uncomfortable conversation Japan had endured in a very long time. That Italy had not answered any of the numbers Japan called trying to defer and end it did not help matters.

"Please leave." But he tried to smile through it, and he accepted Spain's apologetic nod, watching the floor and the shadow he cast as he slowly lifted himself up. There was no further good-bye, no well-wishes or _'have a safe flight home_' from Japan. He simply sat there, and Spain simply left, and Japan just tried to organize what he had heard and rationalize what he had been told.

Despite the awkward hour to go making phone calls, once Spain was out of his house and on his way back home to Europe, or a hotel, he didn't care, Japan wandered into his home office. He picked up the phone on his desk and he began dialing a number he trusted, because it had to be someone he trusted right now.

"Heracles?" He even skipped straight to the name he needed, which showed how important this was with only one word. "I'm glad you had a safe flight home." Breathe, breathe, he was not panicking again. This scar was too old to hurt the same way: he was not feeling his own pain right now, this was the agony of sympathy.

"Yes. I would love to visit Athens soon." But he would have to visit Berlin first. "No… Not this month." But he would not be rash about this. "Or maybe, I-" To act hastily would not help anyone… would it? "I… Please, help me."

Just help him… be a good friend.

* * *

"Nations are asking about you." He didn't move from his brother's side as Romano spoke, he just held Seborga's hand in his lap, his thumb brushing against the sleeping one's chin. He'd been awake before, he'd spoken and he'd cried like Romano, trying to tell him how sorry he was for something that wasn't his fault. Now Seborga was exhausted and sleeping with both of his brothers at hand to watch over him. "The ones who know. They're getting anxious to tell the rest."

Shaking his head slowly, he knew why Romano wanted to talk about this, but he didn't agree. He didn't want what those other faces and names wanted, and he felt, selfishly, that he didn't have to do what they said.

He wanted to protect this. This was more important to him than that, than them. He didn't hate this, he wasn't afraid of this, of these ones; they didn't hurt him.

"I don't know which way to look first, Veneziano…" Romano was sitting down on a chair next to the bed, whereas he had one leg hitched up on the mattress next to Seborga. He'd taken off his jacket and tunic, his hat and gloves resting with the cane near the small night table. Romano looked so frail and tired, and he sounded like he was about to fall asleep … "That's all I need, just point me in a direction. If I keep half-assing everything like this then nothing's going to get done." Then the answer was simple and made sense:

"I don't…" it just hurt to say. He didn't want to speak too much. He hated how much he was tempting fate, teasing it like it was a beast that wouldn't bite him once his guard was down. "Don't want to see them. I don't." His throat hurt, it wasn't his heart or his emotions: his throat hated working to make sounds.

"I wasn't going to throw you on the Security Council, but-"

"I can feel the cancer." He didn't want to make his brother 'shut up', he just wanted to say what they both knew he'd been hiding, what he'd been enduring for months. "It hurts_..._" He pulled his left arm against his gut, against the hard flesh hiding under his skin and splitting the muscles. If there was a Stage Five for cancer, he had it: the first four didn't count at this point. Rampant, painful growths couldn't kill a nation any more than hypothermia, starvation, or heat. But the tumours hurt, and the crimes they represented were agony.

"I'm used to what they do…" Romano had lived with all of the syndicates and organizations for decades, centuries: since Spain's time at least. They'd kept him weaker and sluggish, but his pain was old. "I don't want you to get used to it, but we have another problem." Money. But they'd always had that problem.

They had to find the money to invest in destroying the mafia, or the camorra, or whoever else was corrupting the south, but the crime kept the money out of government coffers. It had just never been this _bad_ before… He'd always had industry and power in his territories, there had always been enough wealth between them that, even if he couldn't fix the problem the North could at least ease the South's burden. But now that protection was gone, and one by one his industries were collapsing into Mafia hands before the government could even try and rebuild them.

"I want them… _dead_." It was extreme, but he was being eaten alive: what else was he supposed to do? Looking from Seborga's sleeping face to his older brother's exhausted eyes, he watched Romano blink and slowly sit up in his chair. "All of them." All of the maggots burrowing into his flesh, eating him from the inside out and forming sacs of pus and dead tissue in his body.

"We passed laws against that. We can't just break down their doors and arrest them."

"Repeal the laws…" Romano rubbed one hand over his face, but he didn't protest. Force. He wanted force: he'd promised it and if they acted against him one more time, he would destroy them. He'd break down the doors and he wouldn't just arrest them: he'd shoot them on sight.

"We would need a new boss." Then find one. "You picked the last one." Then Romano could choose the new one. "And what do I tell Europe if the Republic of Italy falls under martial law? Dictator is a dirty word."

That question… that one was not as simple. He found himself looking back down at his younger brother's sleeping face, tracing one finger along the medical tape covering his eye and feeding up along his shaved head. Romano said it was healing, but it still looked like too much trauma…

"Let's make a deal." Deal? "If I can find the money, you will lead the police and follow our laws to get rid of them. Trials, evidence, and jail sentences." He didn't like that deal, it hadn't worked when _he'd_ been the one handling the money. "And if I can't, then I let you nominate the boss you want and if I like him, we choose him and we go that route. No marching on Rome without me this time, Veneziano: either we agree, or we don't do this." That… seemed so _slow_…

Romano stood up and walked over to him, setting a hand on his shoulder before reaching down to take Seborga's hand from his lap. He watched his brothers' fingers twine together, stealing comfort from the proximity of so much family.

"A revolution will kill him faster than the Mafia." When had Romano become so good with words? "His own prince is working against him. If we want to protect him, we have to be careful." And being careful meant being slow. It meant following laws that weren't working and letting the pain in his flesh sink down deeper into his bones.

But it also meant keeping everyone alive. It would hurt him, but he'd made the mistake of saving himself before.

"I won't die again." But he might wake up before he could do anything. Was he willing to risk that now? "They won't take me." If it would protect this family…

"If anyone tries, they'll answer to me. I'll handle the politics, you can count on me this time." And if the infection tried to harm his brothers like this again from the inside, he would cut their family's losses and bring a revolution. "Do we have a deal?"

He looked from Seborga's sleeping face to the clasped hands in front of him. It wasn't a hard decision, but he hesitated. It was strange.

But then he took Romano's hand off his shoulder and he kissed the back of his brother's knuckles. He held that hand against his face for a few more moments, closing his eyes when Romano tugged his fingers free only to turn them and gently cup his face against his palm. The gesture was small, but it radiated affection.

The strange feeling turned into comfort and he laid down next to his little brother, curling his good arm under his head and draping the other over his sibling's chest, his nose touching Seborga's warm cheek. He watched the youngest one sleep beside him, and trusted the eldest to stand tall and keep watch with a warm hand on his shoulder.

Deal.

* * *

"Who are they?" Go anywhere hadn't been much of an order, and Captain Rossi found himself drinking coffee next to Sergeant Volpato. Bernardi's cup was going cold, but the younger man had hustled off to call home and explain why he'd vanished two days ago in the middle of the night.

"You can't feel it?" The Sergeant was easily ten years his senior, possibly more, but between rank and age they found a middle ground to speak casually. But he mentioned a feeling, and as strange as the idea seemed to him, it was accurate.

"There's this… burning…" The older man immediately tilted his head back with a sigh, smiling a little and running a hand over the grey scruff marring his chin after two days on his feet.

"The General likes you." …_What?_ "It means you've got his attention, so he trusts you do to something for him."

"So he's giving me heart-burn." Rossi was not impressed. This was not impressing him. He wasn't looking to be teased and made fun of, and if Bernardi got back before the Sergeant stopped smiling like that-

"If I was a religious man, Captain, I'd call them angels." Angels… "They're like us, but only half-way. Do you trust him?"

"Completely." It was the damnedest thing, but he really did. "It's like being in the air, only I trust his gut better than mine."

"You're a pilot?"

"I was." But his last flight had been harrowing, and even with the commendations he'd received there had been no explaining the damage done to his aircraft. With no explanation and too much chaos on the ground, he hadn't seen so much as a simulator in months. "Before all of this I was actually thinking of leaving the military, go work for an airline maybe."

"And now?" Sergeant Volpato was still smiling, but it was less teasing, more sympathetic. Taking a long swallow of his coffee, Rossi tried sifting through the strange thoughts tumbling in his head. Angels, that wasn't much of an answer so why did it feel right?

"If the General wants me to do something…" If he trusted him like that, even if he didn't know why… He took a breath and let it out in a puff, glancing through the winter sunlight as he thought he saw Bernardi jogging back over to them. "I guess I owe it to him to try."

"If Italy likes you, Captain, then I think you'll do more than just try."

* * *

**I think that fixed the second-to-last scene. Why so vague, Sunny?**


	31. Jagged Little Moments

**KRWLING, Shattered, World So Cold, Epica.**

**It took the longest time to figure out what this chapter was going to cover, and then I had to come in at the 11th hour and pull a section out and give it to the still-unfinished chapter 32.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Jagged Little Moments

They couldn't start too big: they'd wind up in more danger and lose everything if they tried that. The Swiss handgun Romano hadn't known Veneziano owned was handed over without comment, but they both understood that it was the deal: they would use the laws, not force, and rely on the system one more time to save them.

The easiest but slowest method was to use their laws and fix the system instead of going through the trauma of tearing the whole thing down. But they needed money: more than the organizations bleeding them could afford. They needed enough to keep ministers clean and judges honest, the kind of cash that would make businessmen loyal to the government and give bankers the freedom to do make honest loans and decent gains. They needed Europe's money, they needed France and Germany and England and the rest to sign off on a deal to rescue them the way Portugal, Spain, and Greece had been given a change to save themselves. They needed help, because if Romano couldn't finance the campaign to weed out corruption from the top of the pyramid down, then they would have to resort to Veneziano's method before it was too late.

They could kill the cancer with fire, but at this point ran the risk of killing the victim too. They would need a new boss, a new master in Rome and one who either swept into office on a tidal wave of popularity or marched into the capital with enough power to silence the opposition. Being forceful without real political strength would only cause mayhem: Veneziano couldn't just march the army through his cities tomorrow and crack-down on every major infraction he saw or suspected. They couldn't afford it economically, and in terms of morale it would splinter the North's identity if he tried bringing the hammer down on his disaster-ridden population without warning.

Even with a strong human master in Rome, Romano also didn't know how he'd handle the politics of a direct attack when facing the other nations. He'd let Veneziano, and Spain, and Vatican, and Grandpa handle these things for him for centuries. He hadn't taken his own foreign affairs into direct account in such a long time that China's every word of attack had been warranted.

He had to start someplace small, and they both needed to move slowly.

Romano needed the time to teach himself.

And Veneziano needed to brace for the coming storm.

* * *

Veneziano remained up north with Seborga to finish dealing with arrests and procedures for two weeks, then joined Romano back down in the capital once their brother seemed through the worst of it. They set-up Veneziano's office in a different wing of the complex from his old one- just in case someone came storming in who wasn't meant to see him. His communication privileges and titles were restored, quietly, and under different government branches from before, buried through back-doors and sub-divisions. On paper there was only one Italy, and only the people actually working as part of the government had any idea of the truth.

Spain had accused Romano of lying to people, and that had hurt, but now he knew that there was no other way to describe what was happening. His only defense was a simple one: Veneziano didn't want to work with the other nations, so for administrative purposes there was no sense giving him an office or advertising his titles as one. He didn't want to go out of his way to tell anyone, and he definitely didn't want to see anyone, he just wanted to stay within their borders and deal with their immediate problems.

And if he was taking care of one of their main issues, then Romano could focus on all the other ones circling around them like sharks. The only time they both needed to be anywhere was when they met with their boss, because they had to give the man a chance to do his job.

"Your laws exist for a reason. What would happen if we reverted back to old, draconian ways of guilty until proven innocent?" Justice. That was what they'd get. "I think you mean chaos and corruption. The situation is difficult, but not dire."

Romano could tell just by _looking_ at Veneziano that they both had the exact same thought before leaving that office. If it had been the Prime Minister's brother who'd been mutilated by gunshots, or his body riddled with painful tumours, things would have been more "dire" from the human perspective.

But they couldn't express that kind of feeling out-loud yet. They just shared it silently with one another while Romano firmly reminded his brother that they'd made a deal, and they were both going to follow through on it. Romano would find the money to fund Veneziano's enforcement of the law, so unless Rome itself came under storm they weren't going to deviate from that plan.

But that deal brought Romano no small amount of grief, because the first major step in not fucking up his side of things was finding help. Dealing with his brother was more a relief than a chore, but sitting down across from his father in the Micro-nation's alcove was a little bit like hell.

"I need you to teach me." To say Papa was upset by all the things happening to them was an understatement, and Romano had to time his request right after Mass for the Solemnity of Saint Joseph, in mid-March, to make sure the crotchety old man was in a good enough mood to agree. They were standing in the aisle in Saint Peter's after the service and the thousands of worshippers had passed through. Romano didn't want to think it, but he was fairly certain Veneziano's hand on his shoulder was there to keep him from running away. "I embarrassed myself every time I opened my mouth in London last week, I can't keep going through this."

Please don't lecture him, please don't lecture, no lecture _please._

Vatican pinched his thin lips and worried the silver cross hanging around his neck. It wasn't the same one he'd always kept, Veneziano had that one with him; this was a new one.

"Why didn't you say something sooner? Come back tomorrow." Oh thank _God._

* * *

Japan landed in Athens in the last week of March, hoping the sun and Greece's unique culture would sooth the rough, tumbling emotions he had been given by Spain. The Latin nation would not stop contacting him: asking him if he'd made a decision, if he was going to act, when he wanted to tell Germany, and if he was even going to help Spain at all. It was too much anxiety for Japan to handle right now. On any other topic he would have conducted himself appropriately and without much strain, but this one?

No. So it was nice to visit a nation that was dear to him for many reasons, not the least of which being the way Greece had never been involved with the Mansion or the Monster. In a way it kept him pure in Japan's eyes. So even if it was a breach of trust Japan told him exactly what was disturbing his emotions like this, and he hoped for some kind of sympathy or help. He had taken weeks to mull over the issue in private, and now he needed guidance.

"I sort of which you hadn't told me…" But it was such an uncomfortable issue that not even Greece's laid-back way of viewing the world could fix it. They were standing on the white plastered balcony attached to Greece's home, looking across the stepped design of his city and down towards the green sea. "It could be true, I don't know. Italy hasn't wanted anyone to visit Rome since the Earthquake, but that might change with all the Bail-out talks picking up again." Bail-outs, loans, grants: money had the loudest voice in difficult times like these. It wasn't about friendship anymore, it was about business.

"Germany came straight here after the meeting in London," Greece continued, and Japan let himself admire the way the sun struck his tanned face as he listened. "He's been watching my industries and markets like a hawk making sure I don't do anything bad with the money he gave me. So Spain's right, if something upsets him right now it will be bad for all of us." All of them meaning Spain, Portugal, Greece, and Italy, and by extension anyone else in Europe who wasn't completely stable and self-sufficient, which in this century meant no one. Germany had four nations resting directly on his shoulders, but he wasn't carrying all of Europe on his own.

"Maybe I should speak to France…" Or England, he was helping too, wasn't he? Japan looked down at the small honey and yogurt dessert in his hand, half-heartedly poking at the treat the other nation had served him earlier. The weather had cooperated with his trip, but that was the only atmosphere working in his favour.

"Why not Prussia?" Oh, actually that might have been a better idea. "France knows the numbers, but Prussia knows his brother. I would ask but I don't think he wants to talk to me: I'm still a liability to them." Greece had a way of smiling through painful words that Japan would never stop loving… "Tell Prussia."

"Thank you…" and he meant it.

* * *

"_Do you know what America needs? I do."_ He needed a stiff drink, that was what. _"America needs focus. We need to stop standing on our toes and peering over the fence of the Atlantic, we need to remember what it was that made us the most powerful nation on this earth."_ Because there was more than one earth, obviously, so he had to be specific.

America had considered breaking Romano's radio, or at least popping the batteries out of the damn thing so he'd stop turning it on. He'd been outside Naples for a month, sitting in the shadows of the Appennine mountains and following the older nation's warning about not dicking around with his tomato plants.

"_This nation was not built on useless baubles from Korea, or fancy shears from Germany."_ Fucking _hell._ _"Every government desk and chair is carved from solid American oak, not flimsy Swiss plastic."_ Swedish, the manufacturer he was thinking of was _Swedish,_ and America buried his face in his hands trying to tell himself Sweden and Switzerland were too high-tech to bother with radios anymore.

"_This nation does not need foreign debts and international crisis alerts."_ Shut up. _"We have been the world's nine-one-one for too long, rushing north and south, east and west across the planet in search of those in need and suffering just to exist."_ Shut _up._ _"But what about our own? When was the last time America made time for America? If our so-called friends up north think they can just turn their backs on a century of friendship, and climb into bed with the Asian powers, then-"_ _Shut up!_

America slammed the black plastic box against the brick wall and listened to it crack and fracture, cutting off the voice of the man who'd held fifty-one percent of his better judgement for the twelve hours it had taken the polls to open and close. He stood there, furious, staring in frustration at the ruined electronic, and then he pulled out his cell-phone and waited.

He'd do it this time.

When Canada called he'd pick up the phone this time. He'd answer the ringing tone, he'd talk to his brother, and he'd finally get all of this off his chest. _"I was fired, Mattie."_ He'd say. _"I didn't know he'd say something like that. You know I don't feel that way."_ He'd tell him everything, he'd share the little things like: _"I can't even pick pop or soda anymore",_ and the big things like _"a Real Christian knows love is love, but a Real Christian would never change the definition of marriage"_. He'd do it this time, he promised himself and he meant it. When Canada called this time, after this latest speech, America would answer and he'd tell his twin everything.

He'd tell him. As soon as Canada called, he'd tell him.

He just had to call.

So call, Mattie, please.

He just had to make the call again.

One more call, bro, please.

Just one.

"_Please_…"

* * *

March bled into April, and Canada drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, waiting.

"Did you want China to be here instead?" Taking a deep breath in through the nose, Canada closed his eyes for a moment behind his glasses, then put on a smile and looked at the nation sitting next to him. Russia didn't seem nearly as tense as he felt, which was nice because he didn't like being this high-strung.

"No, no of course not. I can handle this. You don't mind being here, do you?" It had been a long ways to call Russia, and the contracts he'd drawn up for this _did_ have more to do with China and Korea, but Canada had known who he wanted sitting next to him. He needed a stable, sensible presence on his side, not the great enigma that was the People's Republic of China.

"I'm happy to be here. But you seem upset." Well he was, but Canada ceased his drumming and curled his fingers under his palm, knocking his knuckles against the dark table top before sitting up in his chair. He straightened the papers in front of him and tucked most of them away in the file folder they'd come in.

"We should be out of here soon, if he ever feels like arriving."

"He wasn't on time in London either." No, and that had been almost as bad as his arrival in Hong Kong. "I thought you had a lot of business with the American..?"

"I have a lot of final offers." Canada chewed the inside of his cheek as he spoke, hoping to get the nervous sting out of his face before that door could finally swing open. It worked, but the door stayed shut. "My new boss gave me the green light, so I can tell him exactly how I feel today."

Russia sank back into his seat with a knowing smile and a nod. They stayed there for another five minutes in silence, and just as Canada was getting fed up with the wait, the polished wooden door hidden in the panelling around them finally clicked. The brass handle twisted and Russia stood up as the American diplomat quickly stepped inside.

Canada kept his seat. This was his capital and he was not impressed.

"Ah, it's you aga-"

"Sit down." This was a small meeting room, windowless and sparsely decorated except for the wood panelling around the chamber. The ceiling lamp was gold at first glance and Canada didn't want the American to take the time to check twice. He wanted to be done with him within the hour, if not sooner.

Canada folded his hands in front of him as the human in the suit sat down across from him, not waiting for him to open his brief-case and pull anything out of it. But he did, against his better judgement, let the American from Washington speak as he slid down into his seat.

"I was expecting to bring a fellow member of the administration to this meeting, but-"

"These meetings don't include flunkies; I thought we covered that for you in London?" Flunky was not the word Canada would ever use to describe any of his own ministers, deputies, or beurocrats, but right now the word worked. "We're here so I can brief you on my decisions and give America a chance to salvage a reputation your president has taken great strides towards destroying." The American straightened right up, and the nation he was speaking too didn't care how affronted he looked.

"That's too harsh-" Canada sucked in a breath, and was thankful that Russia stepped in before he could lose his temper:

"That badge you're wearing carries executive powers, you know this, hm?" Of course he did, the human looked insulted. "Someone like you can't use it effectively, but at least try today so we can leave."

"Now what is _that_ supposed to-?" Canada touched Russia's arm with one hand, but didn't take his eyes off the squirming human in front of them. It irritated him that his brother wasn't here, it hurt him that he'd been getting the cold shoulder for months and attacked through the air-ways by another nation's unchecked boss.

"These are the quotas and prices I am willing to sign off on, not a point lower." Turning the first file over and sliding it across the table, Canada didn't lean to make sure it landed in easy reach, he wanted the human to stand and bend over for it. "Copper, nickel, and steel are valuable resources, and if you think I'm going to negotiate on lumber then you might as well leave now."

"What?" The human didn't even bother going through the portfolio. He barely even opened it before dropping it shut and looking up. "Wait, you don't have the authority to-"

"_Don't tell me what I am authorized to do, human."_ Hissing the words in French, he couldn't keep them bottled up: his French blood would boil if he tried, and the human didn't speak the language anyways. "This is my final offer, and if your government rejects the package then I will take my resources out of the American markets." Which would drive up the prices of everything, absolutely everything.

"The Canadian economy is export-driven, where exactly does your government-?"

"Do you know the input and output capacity of the People's Republic, American?" Canada didn't like this, he didn't like hounding someone, even someone this insignificant, or chasing them like a mouse into a hole. But he was finished with this game: he was done playing along and dancing to his brother's off-beat tempo. "Numbers, I want precise, accurate numbers. In the last six months do you know how many factories and industrial platforms have been opened in the far east?" He was going to have to change that term soon. The far east was fast becoming Canada's closest neighbour.

"I don't have them on hand, no-"

"Well you should." He snapped back, and from the corner of his eye he saw Russia's hands folded neatly in his lap, giving no sign that he felt the need to interfere with what was going on. "Because in the last twelve months I've created two jobs for every one lost south of the border. I've increased the flow of capital from my western ports by sixteen percent, I've driven the price of European imports down, and I've kept my dollar a solid thirty cents above yours. I have also accepted more American immigration applications than any other nation: engineers, doctors, accountants, tradesmen, and their families, and their businesses. China is raising prices and if your major retailers don't find a way to make up for the lost revenue then _I_ will be the one to snap them up, subjecting them to my tax laws and pouring no less than six billion dollars into my economy _per-quarter_."

He stood up, and he did it slowly, and as much as his tongue wanted to lash out in the language of protest, the first colonial voice he'd ever had, he kept it in English. Canada was _not_ going to waste his mother tongue on a man who couldn't understand just how furious he was.

"In the last twelve months, American, I have been accused of harbouring terrorists, cheating tourists, eco-bombings, laziness, corruption, disloyalty and fraud. I have watched your media turn my image into a joke and an insult. I have had my very foundations questioned and my borders flaunted: your agents have pursued Canadian citizens across the border, they have blocked their own brothers from returning home, they have performed illegal wire-taps and investigations on citizens who fall so far out of American jurisdiction you shouldn't even be able to _see _them! You have changed your border and travel laws without consulting me, enacting them without providing fair and adequate warning under _any_ standing treaty. How _dare_ your president and his administration invalidate wedding and insurance documents _signed and enacted by my children and government!_ How _dare_ you disrespect my family openly in every speech, and then have the unmitigated _gall_ to show up late in my capital, on my time, and then without the most basic information necessary to do your job with a modicum of success?"

"S-Sir I don't-"

"_Get out!" _he was angry, he was so, so angry. And it hurt to feel like this, because it wasn't like him. He could take a joke. Canada could be the big dumb moose who liked hockey and maple syrup: that was fine, he could laugh at that. But a thick, violent, terrorist-grooming commie wasn't the same thing. Being called a remnant of an Empire "better left for dead" was insulting and brutal, to have rallies that used his name as an example of Godless evil was demoralizing and it just hurt far, far too much, and he would rather get angry than take it anymore.

So he wasn't going to take it anymore: he had every reason to be proud of himself and his people, and Canada wasn't going to let one nation tear him down because his brother didn't want to be alone in his isolation.

"Get out, American, and tell your President that unless he sends Alfred F. Jones back here to fix your damned mistakes, Washington can save its breath and leave me the hell alone." And that was the end of it.

* * *

Use the laws.

Use them to set a trap, lay the wires down and eventually, hopefully, someone would trip and get snagged by them.

It happened after April left them with May, it happened on one of the days where he forgot he was living in a dream. They caught one: one from Calabria, one from _high_ in his organization. His was a family with satellite clans and fingers all over the banking industry in that region, along with a foothold in government that had thought, why not? Let's make our own nation in the North of Italy. So they'd planned to just slice apart the region of Imperia and declare their own little kingdom, and had sent men with guns to do the dirty work.

He was a man who they transported with documents and evidence to Rome, a murder charge hanging over his head along with the corruption scandals. Monaco's interests were pulled in too but he stood in her way and wouldn't let her interfere. This man had not pulled the trigger, but he had ordered it, they were sure.

They had a witness who said as much, and it was hard to take Romano's advice and not feel excited. They'd caught one, and even if he only spent the rest of his life in prison, they'd followed the laws and they were going to win. It was a small battle and he had learned more than he thought he would on the road to get here, so nothing could crush this feeling when he stood on the courthouse steps in the crowd, watching Romano wave off reporters where he was standing a few yards away in the limelight.

And when the witness' car pulled up with state police and snipers and even a helicopter there to keep him safe… they opened the door to a corpse that had suffocated en-route.

Someone had plugged the exhaust pipe.

Someone had sealed the driver's compartment and locked the doors so no gas leaked out.

The tinted windows had done their job too well.

How the driver had heard nothing and the dead escort officer hadn't been able to radio out for help was a mystery they could not solve. It took every single shred of self-control in his aching body to stop himself, when he heard the driver's thick southern accent and he realized this was not the man he had chosen for today, from killing him.

In that single moment of blind rage he would have shot the driver. He would have done it in front of an entire crowd if the man he had brought with him, the human Captain who served him so well, had not put a hand on his arm to stop his shaking.

The rat that had ordered his brother shot and almost killed walked free. The law of Double Jeopardy meant he was absolved of the crimes he had committed but was now acquitted for.

The law had failed them again and in the same day their boss and his council called it justice. Clearly, this dream did not understand what that word meant.

* * *

**So, 32 is not done yet and that's a new thing for this story. I cannot CONFIRM next Sunday's update, but I'm at about 80% completion for that chapter so I guess I'll be fretting over 33 once I finally deal with it. The pacing is giving me so much grief, it's the sole reason why from March to May Japan told all of 2 people. The reunion IS coming, I'm just struggling to get stuff written...**

**Good night, and I hope to see you next week!**


	32. Gas Leak

**Business of Paper Stars, Brotherhood, False King, Final Judgement, Sin and Restitution, Archangel, Fatal Fury, Velocitron.**

**THIS CHAPTER.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Gas Leak

"Tell me what you mean when you say you're dreaming."

It wasn't a question he expected his brother to ask him, especially after a very long night of trying not to drink too much. Of course, despite the effort they'd only ended up with two empty wine-bottles on their living room floor. They were passing a third bottle back and forth to one another, himself reclined back on their couch with that hated tie undone around his neck, Romano sitting on the floor next to him with his head tilted back, waiting for the wine to make its rounds.

Their crime lord had escaped today, or yesterday depending on the time, and within the next forty-eight hours Romano would have the final word from the EU about their financial needs. Good wine was meant to go with good food, but he just tilted the bottle back and swallowed a mouthful of the dry red before handing it back over his brother's shoulder.

"It means dreaming." Romano wanted him to speak more, but that wasn't exactly new. He'd wanted him to speak since he'd come home so many months ago, and although he still didn't want to answer him most of the time, he could feel himself sinking into the habit.

"Cut the shit, Veneziano." Give the bottle back, Romano. "How do you know you're dreaming?" Because he wasn't drunk yet now give it.

Taking the wine back for another turn, he glanced down when he heard a low rumble and saw Romano's hand stroking Gino's white fur. They hadn't turned on any lights after coming home, just one on in the kitchen so Romano could find the wine and bring it back out. They'd had glasses, but those were abandoned on the coffee table, so between the cat and the wine neither one of them was going to get up soon.

"Fine, how _many _dreams have you had then?" _Stop…_ "No, I'm serious." Well don't be. "I'll let Gino sleep in your hat again, just watch me." Then he'd just make Romano take his uniform to the drycleaner's again. "You mean you'll take it yourself, bastard." Uh, _no_- "We can do this all night or you can just answer me. If this is a dream, what was the one before it?"

He didn't ask what was waiting for him if the dream ended. He couldn't tell if it was because his brother knew the answer, or the dream wouldn't acknowledge itself as false. The one with the letters had been like that: the endless winter of 1944, the dream with only secret codes and messages between Fascist North and Allied South. Only codes and secrets until the firing squad outside his window marched an Italian man with chestnut hair, hateful eyes, and a wicked black tongue out into the snow. They made him stand in the white powder and wait to be shot right in front of him…

"Grandpa." He slurred the answer, clawing his way out of the memory and taking solace in the exhausted way the wine in his tired system was making him toasty warm under his clothes. Warm, not cold, they were in Rome, not Salo, and it was spring, not eternal winter…

His coat and jacket were lost somewhere and the cushions holding his body snug felt re-stuffed and new. He was going to fall asleep like this, maybe, a momentary darkness before he came back to the dream. Years and years ago, decades, centuries even, he might have found the layers of his consciousness fascinating, now they were protection. He would rather dream a dream about dreaming, than relive a dream about dying.

"What about grandpa?"

"He was the dream before this one…" Grandpa Rome's Empire, with its towering forums and mighty army, the cheering of the crowds and the rose petals and olive laurels in the golden heat… A hundred days and nights of running as a child through the ancient streets he hadn't seen built, protected by strong arms and sequestered from those strange faces. Even Romano had been kept away from him then, not even Vatican or Helena, Gaul or Carthage, Egypt or Byzantium had shown their faces when he'd thought to ask about them. Cyprus, Phoenicia, no one from that ancient time…

"How did it end?" He tasted their modern wine again and found it too strong and heavy, thinking only of the rougher, sharper sting of Roman drink. "Veneziano…?"

"He fell asleep." Romano didn't ask for the bottle back, and he didn't know if he should finish what was left or put the red aside. "Germania… he ended it under the olive tree." The final day when Grandpa's heart had stopped, and he'd been wrapped up and sobbing in his brother's arms so he couldn't see what happened next. He'd been so confused and comforted by having his brother there where he hadn't been before, clinging to him and screaming as someone he thought he knew strode through the fading red light with the glinting edge of a silver blade in his hand.

Feliciano had cried so hard into Lovino's chest and shoulder that he hadn't even known the monster had crept up on them instead. He hadn't seen the knife rip and tear through his brother's body, he'd just felt the hot blood washing over him before his grandfather's warm sun was transformed into cold, blinding florescent light…

"Answer me one more question, Veneziano." No… "If it's a dream, and you know it… Then why haven't you woken up?" He opened his eyes again in the dark, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for his eyes to catch the faint light shining in from the kitchen. He wanted to stay in the dark for a bit longer, sometimes it was the closest he could get to comfort.

"…Why do you think I'm so afraid?"

* * *

"Just who is Alfred F. Jones?" This was what the American President wanted to know, and that was why he was speaking to the respective heads of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Central Intelligence Agency. "What kind of conspiracy is this that one boy's input is going to be enough to sway deals with this nation's biggest trading partner? I want answers, gentlemen."

"Mr. President, Alfred F. Jones is… complicated." Bullshit, it was some lefty conspiracy is what it sounded like. Where were the good, sensible heads in Washington? Why did the executive agent in front of him from the FBI look so uncomfortable? Tugging on his tie, only grudgingly making eye-contact, it was all unsettling.

"This isn't a thriller, gentlemen." Irritated, the President tossed his pen down on his desk in the oval office, milky morning light pouring in through the windows behind him. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that two critical government organizations have nothing to tell me about this?"

"Mr. President we expect you to understand that you've rejected everything we've told you."

"And what's that, exactly? A bit of mystic hoopla along with a few blurry photographs and a signature like his grandfather's! Are you insane?" Personifications, avatars, angels- by God he's had enough of the Left and its media sources twisting doctrines they have no right discussing. Angels in the White House, these men should have their mouths washed out with soap. "This reeks of a conspiracy, and you honestly expect me to believe that everyone else on the World Stage is in on it?"

"Mr. President, we have clearly reached an impasse," the FBI agent stated, tenting his fingers in front of him where he was sitting back in his chair, pretending he didn't have to sit up straight for the Commander and Chief of the American Military. "I can tell you this much: you are within your rights outlined by the Declaration of Independence to remove and temporarily bar Mr. Jones from entering the White House, or from dabbling with international affairs regardless of our allies' wishes." The contempt in that statement was astounding, the President could practically hear the man huffing away with _'but you're a damned fool if you don't believe this hog-wash I'm feeding you'._ There was nothing worse in the world than being taken for a complete and utter imbecile.

"Why do you two believe him? Because obviously you do, otherwise-"

"If I may speak out of turn, Mr. President?" No he could not, said the President, only to be interrupted: "The CIA's only concern with this issue is that Mr. Jones not be made into an enemy of your administration, something this fascination of yours is turning heads about. Regardless of whether you believe what anyone has to say on the matter, sir, you're playing with fire by hounding him."

"And where exactly is this fire burning, _gentlemen?_" Because he didn't feel compelled to use the term politely anymore, not if he was going to be mocked like this in his own office. "Between March and that report last week from Ottawa I haven't heard a word from him." But he'd been searching, asking questions, making inquiries, and most importantly: coming up with nothing that wasn't just more fanciful lies and bizarre half-baked schemes. People had seen this man shot, blown up, and run over by all kinds of things: clearly this nation needed psychiatric help.

The FBI director looked to his counterpart, and the administrative head of the CIA was pursing his lip in a way that suggested, although it disgusted the President to his core, that he was contemplating just not answering.

"We know where Mr. Jones is, Mr. President." Good.

"Then bring him back here to Washington: that's an executive order from the President of the United States."

"For what purpose, sir?" Embodiment of the state, immortal man-child who'd shaken hands with Washington himself, preposterous! It was right there in the Declaration that the _President_ represented the nation!

"To tear down these idols Washington has built for itself. This man is disturbing global trade and the economic prosperity of this country: so if you think I'm afraid of a twenty-year-old boy, gentlemen, then bring me Alfred F. Jones."

And that would be the end of _that._

* * *

"You knew." Japan regretted telling Prussia. He regretted it more than he could say, but it still wasn't as much as what Miss Hungary was feeling. "You knew!"

"Prussia wait-" she was sitting on a dining room chair that had been brought into the salon for this discussion. They were in her house, not Germany or Prussia's domain, because when Japan had tried to call the former nation he'd happily invited Japan up to Budapest.

"You knew and you didn't fucking tell me! _You knew this whole time!"_ And now Prussia was on his feet, marching back and forth across the red rug, stomping like a beast with his red eyes on the woman. Japan had thought he would be the one to come under fire for saying it, for suggesting it, for admitting he didn't know if Spain was telling the truth or not. But Miss Hungary was there to hear him say it and her guilty reaction just- "You just sat there and you watched everything happen- you didn't fucking do _anything!_ You didn't tell me, you didn't say one fucking word!"

"Prussia I couldn't!"

"_Bullshit!_"

"No, it's the truth!" but Miss Hungary was not the kind of woman to simply be yelled at and weep, especially not in her own house. She was on her feet with a hand raised against the man she'd professed to love, and Japan not only wished he could vanish into the upholstery, he wished he'd never come and sprung this on them. "You weren't there, you didn't see what he's become!"

"And whose fault is that!"

"_Not mine!"_ Hungary did not shriek or scream, she had a strong voice and it practically shook the house when she boomed it back at him. Japan was on his feet in an instant, but Prussia somehow had the conviction to not even flinch in the face of it, so completely lost in his anger that he just snarled at the female nation as she took her turn with him:

"If you want to blame someone, choose his brothers!" Wait- "All they do is encourage it! He doesn't leave the house, they won't force him to speak, they spend hours just trying to understand these nonsense gestures and hand-movements! I haven't been allowed to go back since December because they keep him locked up and _'safe'_ so nothing can upset him!" What? No, why would Italy's family even consider-?

"So why the fuck didn't you _say_ anything?"

"Because you-" Hungary was strong, but all of this was painful. She pulled her bottom lip up between her teeth and bit it carefully, the anger fading slightly as her face grew tighter at the memory. "You didn't see him," she said slowly, but her voice was hard. "You don't know how different he is. I thought I could reach out to him because the older brother wasn't around, and I tried-" Prussia was immediately skeptical, scowling and giving a huff without unclenching his fists. "I really did, and I don't care if you believe me because it's true! But- but then he just…"

Her eyes went blank for a moment, lost in a memory as she grasped for the words, finding and piecing them together very slowly.

"He crossed out your names." What..? "They were written down and he just erased everyone like they didn't matter to him. And then he gave me such a chilling look whenever I tried saying anything about it."

"Italy would never do that." Prussia stated, and Japan agreed, he had to.

"He's not Italy anymore…"

* * *

The first thing Spain heard back from Japan in months was a simple text message that had arrived sometime in the early evening after he got home, but didn't read until the next morning. It worried him:

**I've made a terrible mistake.**

Try as he might to call him, Spain couldn't get Japan's phone to connect or have the Asian nation respond to the messages he sent back.

When he tried calling Germany, the younger nation responded blandly to a question about the last time he'd spoken to Japan.

"_In Kyoto last month, what are you bothering me about? I'm in Paris." _Oh, nevermind then.

Spain hung up and sat worrying his bottom lip as the morning light brightened the sky outside his window. He knew was happening tomorrow, and now Japan's mistake suddenly felt like one of his.

* * *

"We each took the same vow, Hungary!" Austria was beyond outraged, he couldn't contain himself anymore or find any alternative way to conduct himself. "We all did! We swore at the feet of the Vatican city himself to keep this secret between ourselves and _protect-!_"

"They already knew, Austria!" Morning was moving into afternoon over Budapest as Hungary spun and screamed back at him, her face livid and her long dark hair braided and wrapped around her clenched hand. He was still wearing the remarkably casual clothes he only suffered with for long train rides, but despite the exhaustion of travelling from Vienna to Budapest in a night, Austria just wanted to storm out of the house and return home. "What did you expect me to do, lie to their faces and let Germany go into that meeting tomorrow completely blind?"

"The decision has already been made for Italy, emotional blackmail will not make the numbers change and _you had no right!" _Germany's heart was a fragile thing, but there was no reason to assume North and South Italy were _planning_ anything to upset him! Who would that benefit? Who was spreading these awful lies?

"Enough! Both of you shut up!" Austria pointed a hand at the horrible woman in front of him but closed his mouth, clenching his teeth until they started to hurt as Switzerland stood up between them. The neutral state was red-faced and furious, but somehow handling his rage better than either of them. It was embarrassing to be put in his place by a nation whose temper was infamously short, but Austria swallowed his angry words and Hungary kept her teeth bared and furious eyes on him.

"Hungary, when did Prussia and Japan leave, and where are they heading?"

"Paris, and they left last night." _Yester-!?_ Why had she made them come _here _then! This was all a terrible waste of time! If they wanted to fix any of this then they should have gone straight to Paris, or even Rome! "I called you here to keep you out of the way, Austria! You're heartless in these matters and staying out of things I the best-"

"I'm _honourable." _He hissed back, hands grasping for something to hold and twist, or maybe slam and break, he was so angry he wouldn't even trust himself to _touch_ a piano right now, nevermind play one. "I don't go out of my way to spite hard-working nations who have only made simple requests of me while everything else falls to pieces!"

"One more word, Austria, and I swear-!"

"_I said enough!" _Switzerland shouted again, cutting through the ringing building in Austria's ears as the blonde wrapped a hand around his arm and started pulling. "Austria we're leaving. Good bye, Hungary."

"Where are you going?" Indeed, what was Switzerland doing? Austria followed him but he wasn't impressed when the shorter nation whipped open the coat closet for the light spring jackets they'd worn here. Austria's was passed to him and the shorter blond was pulling his windbreaker on with tense hands.

"You're going to Paris." Switzerland was speaking to Austria, and if he didn't know any better he'd say he was flat-out ignoring Hungary. "I'm going to Rome. Do whatever you can to keep an eye on Germany and the others, for their own good, in case Prussia tries contacting them. Break the news to them slowly if you have to, just not all at once like he will if given half a chance." God this was looking terrible…

"And now who's meddling!" Hungary shouted, storming after them both as Switzerland zipped up his windbreaker and sent a sharp glare her way.

"I'm Switzerland and I don't meddle, Hungary: I protect. Austria lets go."

* * *

France was getting a headache from going over all of these numbers, but more importantly he was growing annoyed with the little device buzzing on the table next to them. Looking up from the scattered portfolio, he finally addressed the issue.

"Germany? Is something wrong with your phone?" The younger blonde across the desk from him grunted something, clearly more frustrated than France himself. He regarded the device one more time before finally pressing his thumb against the screen, silencing the awful thing and placing it back down without fuss.

"Prussia. Again."

"We can take a break from this if you would like to answer him." England suggested, looking miserable from the third side of the table as he picked his head up off his wrists. He had been reading in what France thought was a terribly uncomfortable position for the last hour, and there were red marks pressed into his skin from the backs of his hands.

France was, in his own way, hoping for exactly that: a break. These numbers were difficult and on the whole rather upsetting. The decision had already been made and the meeting would happen tomorrow in Rome, but the three of them were still working with financial records, estimates, break-downs and reports trying to prepare themselves for it. They would need to go in armed to the teeth in order to get their way against Italy, because without an insurmountable wall of facts, the emotional component would be too much.

France himself still couldn't shake off the harsh sting of betrayal, or the guilt of it. But no matter how wrong it felt on the human level, for nations there was no such thing as one for all and all for one. They could not drag the entire Union into economic ruin just for the sake of one nation. England was already making preparations to help Italy move from the European Union on to the World Bank: perhaps the funds at that ultimate level of finance would have the power to help.

"I told him not to call me while I was here." Germany stated shortly, still not looking up from the papers in front of him as he circled something in red and placed it in a pile for ordering later. "I told him I do not want to speak to anyone until after this issue is put to rest." He was so firm with that tone and that pen, France quietly swallowed the suggestion he'd been brewing about going for lunch in another hour. They would order in, or perhaps skip the meal all together depending on his guests' condition.

"Of course…" So France quietly checked his own phone when he felt it vibrating in his pocket. It concerned him when he saw Prussia's name and flag flash over the screen, but with one hesitant look at the stern young nation across from him, the host decided against answering. He would text him later, or perhaps call. Instead he slid the electronic away and looked to England with a simple request:

"Do you have those interest rates from the banking sector?"

* * *

The next message Spain received that afternoon was from Prussia, and it terrified him:

**If you're not in Rome to stop me: I'm burning his city to the ground.**

Spain had never booked a plane ticket so fast in his entire life. He'd swim to Italy if he had to.

* * *

**PRUSSIA KNOWS.**

It took Romano several minutes spent just staring through a mild hangover and the sunlight in his office to understand what those words meant. The fact that Switzerland sent it in German didn't help his cognitive abilities either, but he sat there and forced his brain to translate the simple, alarming message.

And as soon as he did, it paralyzed him.

'_What if it had been you instead of him?'_ Months and months ago Spain had tried to ask him what it would have meant if South Italy had been the one who needed the North to hide and protect him. Romano had told him Germany's anger wouldn't matter, that he could handle being hated, that he was strong enough for a scorned lover and cheated friend. But now he turned Spain's question on its head: what if instead of North Italy, it had been the Federal Republic of Germany?

In that world, what would Romano do if it had been Prussia hiding his own little brother?

**I can't protect you anymore.** _**-R. **_

Nothing good. He'd do absolutely nothing good. Romano hands were shaking just trying to punch the letters into an e-mail, firing it off to his brother's office before he quickly stood up and heard the light _ding_ from his phone. Spain's number this time- why?

**I'm sorry.**

No he wasn't.

Don't give him that bullshit right now, there was no way he-

"_Mr. Italy,"_ the voice of the woman who worked at the front desk in his office spoke through the intercom sitting next to his computer. Romano was already standing and shuffling papers into something resembling a neat pile, sunglasses in hand and telling himself there was no way Switzerland would _wait_ between finding out about this and then telling him. "_The Representatives of Japan and the former German Democratic Republic are-"_ He slammed his finger down over the button.

"Let them in."

Japan too? Some warning, Switzerland. He wanted to ask how, but Spain's apology already told him. Another message from Switzerland said something about planes before Romano slid the device into his jacket pocket. His mind was spinning as he stuffed an empty coffee mug in his desk drawer and made sure there was one package of documents sitting out properly to show he'd been interrupted.

He didn't have time to fucking stage his office, glancing up once just to make sure the curtains were open over his window and allowed the sunlight to pour in and reflect off the white walls. Romano grabbed a random file off the stack of papers and snapped it open in his hand, standing just behind his desk when he heard the door click open.

Don't look up, don't fidget, don't tense up or gasp or hold your breath. He could do this, he just wasn't allowed to panic or lose his head.

"The meeting isn't until tomorrow." He said smoothly, and he made sure he sounded annoyed.

"This isn't about money."

Romano glanced up slowly, and what he saw was open concern and apprehension on Japan's pale face while his dark eyes shifted back and forth between the two taller nations. Romano didn't want to think about why he looked so wary and unsure when he was supposed to be one of the hardest countries to read.

"Look at me, Italy."

He's been getting there, but fine. He looked and he saw nothing that surprised him in the hard line of Prussia's clenched jaw, his white skin burned with a flush over his cheeks that made him seem splotchy and ill-tempered like a child. His red eyes were wide with madness, like he was trying to look through the Italian and figure out what he wanted to know without actually having to ask. Romano didn't know why, but it felt so much easier to keep his own cool when he saw just how violently Prussia was clinging to his.

"Take a seat, gentlemen." And please, God, don't let Romano faint…

* * *

**Most hated chapter of this entire series, because I killed so much AMAZING content to get it together.**

**But it's done! And 33 is not, but I got about 1000 words done on that on Friday and I don't think I'll have to do any retroactive editing here to this part. This is a risk you take when I update as I complete chapters (my reserve has officially run dry!), but I **_**may**_** be forced to back-edit small details here and there from now until the end of the story. I'll be sure to flag those changes as I make them (if I make them) and knowing me they'll probably be fairly small details like time and date markers. **

**Leave a review below, and I'll see you next Sunday!**


	33. Romano Must Die

**Evey Reborn, Requiem for a Tower, Fatal Fury, Archangel, Memories, Brotherhood, World So Cold, Vengeance, Vanity, Safe and Sound, None Can Die, Tristan, The Game Has Changed.**

**Double update? Eek! No! I barely got this one done on time! Working on 34 as we speak!**

**I'm really really really mad at myself, because I think I hit Prussia with the villain stick. This is one of those chapters that I'm very likely going to go back and re-write at some point before finishing the story, because this is new text that hasn't had time to sit and settle into place. Minor edits to Rossi's speech-tags.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Romano Must Die

"Mr. North Italy?" Mm? He still wasn't used to being called that on a regular basis again, but he was just going to have to get over it as he looked up from the computer screen in front of him. It took him a moment to recognize the young woman who usually worked at the desk outside Romano's office, but the worried look she wore registered immediately.

She was holding a file folder in one hand and seemed hesitant to step all the way in to his office. It wasn't him the human was afraid of: he and Romano were in and out of one another's way all day, constantly crossing paths and frequently sending their staff back and forth for little things and fact checking.

"I'm sorry, these just arrived at Mr. South Italy's office. He's busy now but they were flagged by your Swiss counterpart." Switzerland…?

"Thank you." Taking the paper portfolio from her, the human quickly nodded with a smile and ducked out of the room, her shoes clicking on the stone floors as she vanished down the corridor back to her post.

The paper itself was nothing special, but the crest inside was the Swiss coat of arms and beneath that was a flight manifesto, the faxed photocopy bearing Austria's signature. He read several of the names and noticed nothing except that they sounded confused in origin: Germanic, Latin, Arabic, it was too much of a hassle to go through it meticulously. The last page was an e-mail that could have been forged, but the other signatures weren't and Austria's German was as difficult to read as it had been in the 17th century…

**To my associate the Swiss Republic,**

**Miss Hungary was untruthful: they are not in Paris. As the enclosed document shows I fear they left for Rome several hours ahead of us. Please make haste and inform Italy as soon as you receive this message of the events which have transpired. Do whatever you can to convince him that Ja-**

_Ding._ An alert from the computer pulled his eyes off the page for a split-second, and a habitual check over both shoulders and all corners of the bright, if slightly cluttered, office confirmed that he was still safe and alone. Touching the mouse next to him he quickly wheeled the device over and clicked the new e-mail, a slight pain building in his wrist that he ignored in favour of making his left hand perform a task it wasn't comfortable with.

Romano's name was sitting in his inbox and he opened it with a quick click, confused by the single line of text until he actually recognized what it said:

**I can't protect you anymore. –**_**R**_

No. No why would he-?

Pain lanced from his hip up straight under his shoulder as he made himself stand too quickly, gnashing his teeth in frustration with his body's protests as he pulled Austria's e-mail out of the folder and told himself he was only taking the cane in case he fell. The last few meandering lines read:

**Do whatever you can to convince him that Japan and Prussia both know of North Italy's paralyzed condition, and that they may already be within the city of Rome. I cannot yet confirm if the Euro-crisis council has been informed but I will have confirmation shortly. I will CC Italy with any information I obtain and forward it to you promptly. Please proceed with haste and caution, Vash, as the situation is already remarkably out of control.**

**My sincerest regards,**

He stopped reading and was already running. The dream would not end like this.

* * *

Awful, the only word for it: awful, and awful, and awful. Everything from Miss Hungary's house until here, until now. He couldn't come up with another name or word for it, his language was elaborate and expressive but there just was no single, solitary word for this moment right in front of him.

"Sit down, gentlemen." Italy spoke the words and Japan didn't know how to regard him. Here he stood to blame for the furious nation next to him, at fault for the way Prussia stormed across the sun-lit office with his teeth bare and hands in fists at his sides screaming violence.

What was he supposed to do? Join Prussia? Get between them? Say something? He was an old, old nation, but Japan had no answers for himself. He had seen wars start over smaller issues, he had seen diplomacy triumph over greater obstacles, but all of those had involved _nations_. What were they supposed to do when all they had to stand on were raw, weak, human emotions?

To be less than yourself and still be expected to act like "yourself", what did that mean?

"Tell me what the hell is going on here." Prussia hissed.

"Sit down-"

"_NO!" _He boomed, and Japan didn't quake but he felt himself tensing up even more than before, his nails slowly starting to bite into his palms. "You're not controlling this situation, so wipe that fucking sneer off your face and answer me!"

"If I'm not in control, then what are you so upset about?" Italy had been changing himself, modulating his vocabulary, refining his countenance, training himself to be better with the things he'd always hated. Japan had seen changes like his many, many times before, but where were the alterations in Rome to match? Didn't a different skillset require a change in government? Why was a nation who normally flushed up and screamed standing there with such a critical, but still strangely defensive frown on his face? The file in Romano's hand looked like it was wavering, but he snapped it shut before Japan could properly get a read on it.

"Don't play fucking word-games with me, you're shit at it and we both know!"

"Know what?"

_WHAM._ Japan shouted something but he couldn't beat Prussia's fist, Italy blinking once in shock before the blow connected and sent the other nation reeling, one hand flying to his face to cover his cheek and jaw while the other clawed at the desk behind him looking for something to hold. The papers went sliding across the floor and scattered everywhere, and Japan was torn between rushing into things and staying exactly where he was.

Prussia swooped forward and grabbed the other nation by the throat, snarling something before putting his weight behind slamming the Italian's back into the tall shelves behind the desk. It was excessive and Italy had one hand wrapped around Prussia's wrist, his eyes wide open as his legs kicked wildly and he swore through the pressure at his throat.

"Get your hands off-"

"_Don't fucking lie to me!"_

It was going too far, they didn't need this kind of force to-

Italy's body lurched as he powered his knee up, Prussia gagging on a hot breath and letting go of him before the smaller nation powered his own fist around to punch straight against the blonde's temple. Nations could hit much harder than humans and Prussia slammed his side into the corner of the desk, jarring the heavy wood before catching himself on the edge without hitting the floor.

"Coward-"

"Get out!" Italy barked, snapping his white jacket straight with both hands before dragging his thumb over his bottom lip, wiping the blood away from his tongue. "If all you're here for is a fist-fight, Prussia, then-"

"I'm here to stop whatever the hell you're planning to do to my brother!" That- that _was_ why they- "I have nations across Europe all telling me the same thing and _you-!"_

"_Get out!"_

Prussia lunged again.

* * *

In every dream, Romano died.

Every dream, Romano died.

Romano always died in every dream.

Every single time he closed his eyes to escape the blood and the light and the cold and the quiet, every time he fled from the knife and the laugh and those mirror-ball eyes, he woke up to a world where his older brother died.

Romano shouldn't die because he was a nation? It didn't matter. The dream master didn't care.

Sometimes he wasn't a nation at all: sometimes he was human. Sometimes it was Lovino who died, and he always died. And he always did it over and over and over again always in his arms.

Always in his arms.

Always covered in blood.

Always dead.

Always.

_Always._

_Romano always died._

"General?"

* * *

He wasn't ready for a fight, he hadn't been in one for so long that having one come at him unprovoked and wild left his wheels spinning. His body seized up when it was supposed to move, and his mouth tried to speak when he was supposed to just breathe.

So he _saw_ Prussia, but instead of getting out of the way Romano stood his ground, losing his breath as he was tackled. He felt his feet slip off the tile floor before hot pain screamed down his shoulder and back from the metal edge of a filing cabinet, and then they both hit the floor. There was no room to grapple before his vision exploded with red again, his head snapping to the side as he choked on thin blood and felt Prussia's weight crushing his chest.

"_Prussia!"_ Somewhere out of sight he heard Japan's voice, but Romano was too busy pushing his arm up against the shelves looking for anything that would help him. His fingers caught on the edge of a large box while his other hand was up and pressing back against the blonde's face, his heart hammering before he heard himself crying out in pain. "Prussia this is not what we came for, _let him go!_"

The arm he was defending with was grabbed and twisted, his shoulder following and bending his spine the wrong way while the Prussian remained straddled over his waist and crushing him. He felt his other hand slip from its weak hold without helping him, slamming his elbow on the stone floor as he tried coping with the grip around his wrist and upper arm, begging his shoulder to put itself back in place.

Romano dropped his head and swore, breaths and blood hissing through his teeth as his mouth was overcome by the copper film.

"Play games with me and I'll give you something to scream about, _Italienne._"

"Fuck yo- _aagh!" _His arm- his _arm!_ Pain moved like a knife up from his elbow to his shoulder, slicing through the thick muscle down to the bone as the limb was forced further out of place and held like that, Japan's yammering buzzing away behind them.

"I said enough! How are you going to explain this to everyone? Prussia we made a pact now let him _go!_"

"We made a pact and he fucking broke it!" Romano's arm would break if he didn't- "If you think I'm gonna go easy on the nation who wants to fuck with and break _my_ little brother then-!"

"_Germany has nothing to do with this! Get__OFF!"_

The other two went quiet and for a moment. Romano felt the tension just barely ease off his arm, the pain in his shoulder fading just a little as he tried to flex his fingers slowly, a painful twitch running through the muscles. He tried rolling his twisted body a little more, spat blood on the floor from his swelling jaw, and then-

* * *

"Give me your side-arm."

"With all due respe-" _NO! _Do not question, just obey! "No sir!"

And now he was angry. Now he was furious because it was easier to rage than crumble in the face of the fear. It was easier to stand still and glare with white fury than it was to scream and run from the collapsing dream. His Captain had never failed him and now he stood here in _defiance!_

"I won't give you a weapon when you're like this, North Italy." Who had told him that? Why had he been told? It hadn't been something for him to know he never should have been allowed to _know-_ "Your brother told me now please stop! What's going on?"

No answer for him, he couldn't waste his time or breath on it as he stormed down the hall again, listening for the footsteps that followed him. He didn't like being followed but it was better this way, he didn't like the white light pouring in from the tall windows that they passed, but he could hear the noise of the city beyond the walls and that had to content him. He expected the details to begin to blur and fade away, he was waiting for everything to collapse into one hallway with one destination and one brutal outcome.

But it didn't work like that. He looked around corners he didn't turn down and he saw them lead where they were supposed to. He passed people and he saw their faces, recognized their features. He heard voices and understood what they were saying, and when the same woman from a few minutes before came rushing back down the hall towards them, he heard her footsteps first and recognized her clothes and hair before she came to an abrupt halt.

Others noticed her too, because she looked terrified.

"Please hurry!" He didn't stop walking and as soon as he was within two paces of her Romano's secretary quickly turned and started hurrying back the way she'd come. He heard the Captain lengthening his strides behind him until he came abreast with him, but he was too focused on listening to the woman speak: "They locked the door from the inside. I didn't think anything of it when they started shouting, but then the sounds all changed and-!"

"When?" How long had they been here? When had they arrived?

"Almost fifteen minutes. I know we aren't supposed to call security when it's between nations so I came back to find-"

"Call security." He didn't know what good the order would do, but he couldn't just not say it. He held his breath and forced his legs to carry him up a shallow flight of stairs, taking them two at a time despite the hand he felt reaching for his arm in case he wavered. He didn't want _help_. "Call them _now._"

"Yes sir!" She ducked away from them down another hall as they passed the corner, stepping into a different office to look for a phone. The two of them continued on and he put the pain in his side out of mind, holding his cane in one hand and not letting the other wrap around his gut to try pressing down on the throbbing ache.

Romano's office had once been "their" office: a small series of rooms with space for secretaries and staff to shuffle in and out without running into one another, it had two small private spaces in the back connected by a door for the two halves of Italy, with tall windows that filled the work-spaces with plenty of natural light. His old office was turning into a storage room now, and the plaques on the walls were both gone and replaced with one by Romano's door that held his formal nation name. One name outside one office for one Italy.

"Stand back, sir." The fear was nagging him when they reached those doors, it was forcing itself up to the surface and that's why he stopped instead of pushing forward. The anger was there but it didn't burn him to keep moving and ignore the human's request. He could hear voices on the other side of those doors, low, masculine voices that he hadn't heard in a very long time, voices he'd never wanted to hear again if he was honest with himself. He could feel the fear leaching the warmth out of his arms and causing his lungs to shake and rattle in his chest, and it took every ounce of will he had to keep from unhooking his cane from over his elbow so he could lean on it for strength.

Then it changed. The voices went quiet and the Captain had his hand on the doorknob, that gun he'd refused to surrender still holstered but covered by his other hand. He was just about to force the lock- to shoot it open if he had to, and then everything changed.

He heard Romano scream and everything just _changed._

It was a noise in his head it was the light in his eyes. It was the way the pain melted away into something else and his world tilted and twisted on such an angel that he expected everything to crack and collapse with the force. He was moving and he didn't know where, couldn't see anything or plan what he was doing. He stopped thinking, stopped feeling, couldn't focus or comprehend: there was nothing to understand, there was just that sound. It was that sound that changed everything, because in that moment he woke up.

Feliciano woke up with a black cane in his hands and Kiku Honda bleeding at his feet. Bleeding but not dead, alive and awake and staring up at him with one hand on his split scalp, his back against Romano's desk and black eyes filled with some kind of horror.

Horror?

He was scared.

_Scared._

"_You have no right-_" Scared, Kiku Honda was scared of him. Kiku Honda was looking up in fear at him. Japan was afraid of him. _"No -damned- right!" _

He was in his office, his building, his city, his capital. Within his borders, uninvited, unwanted: assaulting his brother, upsetting his people- _how dare he show something he had no right to feel!_

Japan did not know _fear_. Japan did not know _pain_. Japan did not understand _hate_ he had no _right to-_

"Up! I said get up!" His captain's voice, because the human was yelling at the nation he hadn't seen yet and would attack if given half a chance. "Get off of him or I'll shoot, that's a promise!"

"Then _shoot him!_" Feliciano roared, his world still spinning and his lungs clenched tight around the words he wasn't saying, the things he couldn't phrase without ripping himself apart. Feliciano couldn't see through the light, but he could smell the blood. His eyes were filled with white and shadows, everything so overexposed and washed out he felt blinded by the brilliance. His stomach was knots and he knew he was going to scream, he could feel it building, felt it shaking all the way down in his pelvis because there was no way to contain what was happening.

"I- Ital-?" _NO!_

His eyes were burning and his arms were shaking, his hands clenched so hard around the steel body of the cane that he couldn't let it go. He was holding it upside-down, the hooked end down by his ankles until he heard that name in that voice and it set his world on fire.

He brought the cane's handle around so fast and hard with both arms that he wanted to see blood. He wanted more than the satisfying crack of steel on skin, the way Japan's head snapped sideways wasn't enough and his shocked cry wasn't good enough. He fell to his side and he stayed down, and so help him if he moved Feliciano would beat him to death.

"You watched." He hissed. "You stood and you watched: _don't speak!_" Watched Romano die. He'd watched and he'd done nothing and so help him Feliciano would rip him apart piece by piece if it meant teaching this world what that meant. The world: not a dream.

This was not a dream.

He would have woken up if this was a dream. He would have opened his eyes to the bright light and the white piano, to the cold air and the far away footsteps. He would have woken up in the music room for the he-didn't-know-how-many'th time and it all would have begun again. But this was not a dream.

Romano would be dead if this was a dream, and if he was dead then he would wake up: he would have woken up.

This was not a dream.

This was not a dream it was real it was happening it was the world it was reality it was his reward for _everything!_

Reward for the pain, and the fear, and the _hate_-

"Up! You're under arrest!"

"Stay down, or I'll kill you myself." He could hear footsteps running over one another, arriving out of sync as he kept his attention focused down on Japan. He refused to break eye-contact with someone who had no right to look at him in such a sorry, pleading way. "Lock them both up."

"You can't legally-"

"_Don't you dare quote laws with his blood on your hands!"_ Diplomatic immunity hadn't protected Japan from his attacks, and it wouldn't help the German scum standing with a gun pointed at him either. Feliciano felt men in uniforms moving past him as Japan was grabbed and lifted to his feet, the shorter nation flinching from their touch and shying away from him by several wavering steps. He stopped watching them, staring at the floor where he'd been lying and telling himself not to scream again.

The details were coming back, they were shining through the static buzzing in his skull: the scratches on the cane's body, the weight of his blue uniform over his shoulders and wrapped around his torso. Somewhere below out the window a loud engine roared down the street, and now someone far behind him was asking what was going on.

Nothing was crashing to an end, his eyes were burning from the need to blink or weep: they weren't about to flutter open in a cold white room with silence and florescent light. There was heat in the sun shining through the windows, there was dirt on the floor against the edge of the desk. This was real, all real, because he wasn't dreaming anymore.

Japan stammered his name again, Prussia cussed at him for an explanation, but he just turned and dropped the cane with a loud clatter to the floor. He walked around the desk as the Captain and another human took Prussia by the arms and forced him to walk with them, his order about their arrest repeating itself several times in different voices.

"Get out, everyone out." Out, take them away, no one was allowed to stay behind.

"Veneziano-" No one except his brother, who was on his knees and braced on one hand, head hanging where he'd just started picking himself up. One of their security personnel tried touching him, but Feliciano caught the man's arm and pushed it away.

"Out." He repeated, watching how Romano was shaking and trying to hide it, his white jacket rumpled and pulled half-off his shoulders. He was holding his right arm out, his fingers limp and darker than they should have been. He dabbed at his face a few times with his other sleeve and the cuff came back bloody, matching the wet stain on the floor next to the dented steel filing cabinet.

Romano wasn't ready to stand, and that was okay because he wasn't ready to speak yet either. His throat was starting to hurt, his eyes still burning as he blinked several times and felt himself starting to tilt forward, losing his balance. He pinched his lips shut between his teeth and took another half-step forward, waiting for the last of the voices and the scuffling feet to go away until the office doors clicked shut behind them.

"Romano-"

"I didn't know they were coming." His voice sounded sorry, like he had something to apologize for… "I got a message from Switzerland, but they were already here." This wasn't Romano's fault.

"Look at me?" His world wasn't spinning quite so fast anymore, but it was still tilted, still pulled off balance so it was actually easier for him to get down on one knee than to remain standing. When Romano didn't look at him he reached out with one hand, letting his fingertips touch the back of his brother's neck- he could feel the sweat from the fight and how hot he was under the collar, the tremors still shaking him thanks to the adrenaline and pain. "It… it's my fault."

"Don't say stupid shit!" With his outburst Romano finally made eye-contact, glaring at him with green eyes and a face that was too shaken to frighten him off. There was blood drying under his nose and the right side of his face was going purple, his lip swollen on the left side. He looked terrible, and it made the bad feelings get worse. "I should have called security as soon as I knew who it was, I don't know why I didn't, and this- agh, I can't believe I-"

His brother winced once, and then he did it again, his body folding over itself as he wrapped his arm around his chest and held himself under his right arm, groaning softly. He started shaking again and that, honestly, was more frightening than his anger or his bruises.

"I-Is it broken?" Prussia had broken his arm. Prussia had come in here and broken-

"Dislocated, I think it- _ah!_" No, stop! Stop moving, don't try to fix it just-

"I'll call a doctor." He would, he'd make himself stand up and find the phone.

"No just- pop it back in?" _What?_ "It's not broken, just help me." No, he didn't want to. Popping it back in would just hurt more. "And then it'll fucking _stop_ hurting. A doctor will just do the same thing- Veneziano I lost a fight but I'm not a wimp!"

"No, but maybe I am…" Romano looked at him again, mouth open and brows slanted and lots of angry things bubbling up for him to say- but then instead of saying it, he swallowed the mean words and clenched his teeth instead. It looked like he was fighting for every inch, but Feliciano honestly didn't know if his brother wanted to stay angry, or to hide it as his expression slowly softened.

"Please help me." Oh God he couldn't refuse now… But he couldn't stop his hands from shaking either as he moved around behind his brother. Feliciano placed one hand on his back, the other barely touching Romano's shoulder before he hissed from the pain. They both knew what this kind of injury was like, and some part of him that wasn't falling apart told him he was over-reacting and that it was better to deal with this as soon as possible, but that didn't make it any easier.

"On three: one."

"Two-" _Push!_

"Aaaaah!" It wasn't the same sound as before: it wasn't that world ending scream, not something fueled as much by fear as by pain. The sound Romano made this time was frustrated and hurting, but the fear was gone, and he wasn't angry. He was loud but it was over in the time it took his body to shift and lock up under his pressing hands. It was a nauseous feeling, he could practically _hear_ the bones shifting before Romano regained control of his arm, snapping his elbow closed and pinning the limb against his body. His brother ducked his head again and released a slow, shuddering breath, and it was just too much after what he'd already gone through.

"I'm sorry…" Feliciano whispered, because he meant it and this was too much. Romano shouldn't have had to put up with things like this, he should have been better protected, he should have been kept safe. "I'm sorry- I'm sorry I should have come sooner, or put my office closer, I'm sorry-"

"Your office should be on the other side of that door." It should, Romano was right, he couldn't even remember why he was in another building to begin with, he- "But I won't let assholes like that barge in and hurt you, either."

Romano slowly shuffled on his knees and turned around. He was dabbing at the blood on his face again, most of it dry now as he winced a little every time he brushed his fingers too close to his nose. His bruises were getting darker and the swelling was getting worse, and that made all the hurt and angry things he was feeling kick a little bit harder to get out. He could feel the tears starting to leak from his eyes and knew he was starting to take deeper breaths, but he couldn't calm down or make it stop. Romano looked so sorry, and that just fed the guilt.

"I can handle this, Veneziano. It, it was scary and it hurt, but it's better if they come after me than-"

"I won't let them!_"_ No, they'd had this discussion before and he _knew_ he'd agreed then, but this was different, it was all completely different. Romano's expression changed from something calm to something shocked, but that didn't change what he finally had to say: "Just because that Thing hurt me doesn't mean they get to hurt you! It doesn't work that way and I won't let it!"

"Vene-"

"_No!"_ He'd never said it before, he'd never mentioned it, never been explicit because it was like the devil: if he mentioned the dream master then that would just call its attention to him. But this wasn't a dream and he had no reason to fear that anymore, because this had never happened in any dream. His consciousness couldn't handle seeing it and keep living in any fantasy he or the Monster had ever concocted: he couldn't watch Romano bleed. After the only loop his brother had suffered in, the only time he'd bled out and died in that dark library between the book-cases, he couldn't handle watching him bleed.

He'd woken up too many times still covered in that blood… He didn't care how many times he'd cried about it, he didn't care that that was what was happening again right now, none of that mattered. None of the dreams meant anything anymore.

"_I'm awake…"_ He was Feliciano Vargas, he was the man who'd escaped across time instead of back to the beginning again. He'd let North Italy die in a cursed house and then broken his friends out with a gun and black magic. He'd stayed behind with the monster and he'd been tortured, something he'd feared might happen but hadn't known for sure, something that had happened and he hadn't been able to stop it or get away.

He'd lost himself in dreams until finally one of them ended with gunfire and explosions under a blustery grey sky. He'd lost himself again and he'd woken up to screams and crumbled debris. He'd lost himself _again_ and hadn't known his family was around him until someone tried taking them away. He hadn't known that any of this was real until the impossible was in front of him and it meant he had to be a body standing in space because a figment trapped in a dream would have collapsed and fled to any reality to escape it.

He would have rather gone back to Holy Rome than watched his brother die _again…_

So when he wrapped his arms around his other half he refused to let him go. Feliciano Vargas who had regained his place as the representative of North Italy would not let his brother the South go. He knew Romano's shoulders and back were hurting, he knew his entire body was hurting, that he was bruised and had bled and was sweaty and tired and upset, but he wouldn't let him go. The last time he'd let go he'd had to watch blood squirt from a slash across Romano's throat, because the last time he'd been close enough to bury his face in his brother's arms and hide all the tears against his skin he'd been torn away and damaged like everything else.

"_Tell me I'm awake-_" He had to plead, he couldn't make it a request or a laugh, he couldn't find one shred of joy as he clung to his brother's back and felt himself sobbing so hard it made his whole tired, worn-out, poisoned body hurt. "_Tell me, please just say it-_" They never argued with him about it, they didn't want to upset him: Romano didn't want to lose his temper, Vatican didn't know how to talk him through it, Seborga looked haunted and hurt, San Marino changed the subject every time. "_Tell me it's over."_

"It's over-" Romano gasped, and it might have been the first breath he took with his arms wrapped so tight around him, but he felt his brother reach around and clasp his body tight, crossing his arms over his back and squeezing the tears right out of him. "Oh my God: it's over, Feliciano it's _over_…"

"_Tell me it's dead._"

"It's dead, I promise." Romano's hands just kept clawing at his back, looking for a fold in his clothes or the bend of his shoulders to hold on to. "They cut that creature to pieces and they _burned it._"

"_That __**house**__-_" Romano was kissing him and the tears would not _stop._

"Rubble." He whispered, not pulling back but kissing his cheek again and again, one hand stroking his head and brushing back his hair. "Rubble Switzerland dragged and dumped into a deep, fast-moving river: a river that won't dry up in summer, so the clean water will always run over it. And he burned every blade of grass, chopped down every tree, toppled all the pillars: he salted the ground and Papa cursed it: it's _gone."_

"_I'm awake…"_

"You got up before me this morning."

He had one more question but he couldn't ask it. He wanted to hear the answer but if he did it would be a lie, or it would be a truth that would hurt too much and leave him too tired after too much hurt and pain and-

"You're safe now." So Romano breathed the words instead, he skipped the part where Feliciano had to ask and he just answered without hesitating. He was holding him so tight the tears were starting to come from pain, but neither one of them would let go, they just couldn't. "You're safe. That thing will never come near you again; it will never hurt you again. The only things we have left to worry about now are human issues: just the things we were born to deal with, and we can do that." He closed his eyes and just let Romano keep talking, leaning all of his weight into him and letting his brother sooth him with strong arms and warm words. He was rocking them both back and forth, and it didn't feel weak to feel good… it wasn't wrong to feel safe.

"We can do this… You're home and we're going to help each other, alright?"

"I-l won't let them hurt you!" He sobbed again, his face hot and wet where he was still gasping down into Romano's shoulder. "I won't! I won't- It's my turn and I won't let _anyone_-"

"Shh, it's okay…"

"No!"

"_Shh…"_ And another kiss touched his face, but it didn't feel like being told to shut up or stop talking. It felt like comfort and strength and all the little things he'd needed for so long but had been too scared to take. Romano's hand brushed back through his hair again and he just kept his head down, making himself take slower, deeper breaths as he gently started to relax his arms. It was starting to hurt to keep them so tense, and he knew it was hurting his brother to be squeezed like that.

"Come on, help me up…" They pulled apart slowly, and it was hard for either one to offer too much help to the other. Romano was still shaking from his assault, and Feli- and _Veneziano_ was still weak from everything else. But eventually they were standing, and Romano touched his bruised face again with one hand, wincing as he looked around the messy, damaged office upset by the fighting. He started answering questions Veneziano'd forgotten he wanted to ask.

"Spain told them." So that was what Austria's e-mail had meant… "I don't think Germany knows, so we can't let Prussia go until after the meeting tomorrow…"

"Austria is with the council members." Germany, England, France. "Switzerland is on his way here to see you."

"I need to change…" He needed to ice his bruises too. "Yeah, I'll do that, I just..." Romano closed his eyes for a moment in a slow blink, leaning over a little until he caught himself with one hand on the shelf next to them. Veneziano was there to help steady him, one hand on his arm and the other under his shoulder to make sure he didn't fall.

"We'll be okay?" He asked softly, because it was hard not to be a little afraid. Romano just smiled and made himself open one eye again, his beaten face still bloody and his teeth stained red when he tried to speak.

"We're gonna be just fine, little brother, I promise."

* * *

Part of America really wanted to just keep hiding in South Italy for a few more weeks, at least until the final decision on the European Union's Bail-Out was announced for the nation, but he had to leave.

His President had managed to personally offend every Italian-American of Southern origin, regardless of when their families had actually passed from Romano's care and into his or where they'd actually originated. Calling illegal Mexican immigrants "this century's Sicilians" and letting those words willingly conflate with gang violence and organized crime was, as far as America was concerned, a one-way ticket out of Italy. He'd much rather bow out of Italy's house with his tail between his legs than let Romano turn on his television and come storming down to Naples to throw his ass out the door.

He'd travelled light to Italy and he left with barely more than he'd come with. A bottle of olive-oil he didn't import, a few books he'd bought to patch up his Italian, a couple trinkets and then just his clothes, laptop and phone. He felt like a guilty child heading home with a bad report card, not a proud nation returning to his people to right the wrongs and fight the good fight. The plane ride was long and miserable, not even chatting to the young American couple seated next to him did much to brighten his spirits.

Not when they mentioned student riots in Kentucky or the way unemployment was creeping up point by point in Massachusetts. Four Congressmen had already resigned in the last three months to protest blunders and foul comments from the White House, but the people he spoke to only knew this because he worked for a small political news website, independent of the corporate papers or broadcasters.

"Name a station and I guarantee they aren't talking about it, but punch the Congressmen's names into a search engine and you'll find everything you ever cared to know." It was becoming steadily more about proactively searching for your own news. It really felt like there was no way to trust what was flashing on the screen or blaring across the airways anymore… "Here, I'll write their names down for you again."

"Thanks, guy, I appreciate it." And he really did, it just really hurt to have to hear all of this.

But it didn't hurt as much as going through customs to get back into his own administrative domain. Airports had that funny way of making a nation feel a little off-kilter. You weren't really in your realm, but you weren't in somebody else's either, and without his special government pass he had to stand in line just like everyone else. He had to give over the blue slip of paper with that bottle of olive oil declared on it, then hand over his passport for a quick scan.

The computer made a noise and the customs agent pressed a few buttons. The man in the security uniform didn't look upset or confused so America just waited patiently, exhausted from the long flight and longing to just get on the road home to his New York apartment. It would be a bit of a drive, but there was a rental car waiting and- why did the computer keep making that beeping sound?

"Dude, is there a problem?" He wanted his passport back, it was a human instinct to take back what was his, but the officer was holding it tight in one hand, worrying his bottom lip a little as he stared at whatever was on the screen. He took two breaths and suddenly looked and felt uncomfortable.

"Sir?" Hm? "Mr. America?" The human behind the plexiglass said his name quietly and then glanced around over his shoulder, looking for something before his eyes quickly locked on him again. America wanted to turn and look, but instead he watched the man mouth _'Run!' _under his breath?

"My passport-" He grunted, and then he felt a firm hand come down on his shoulder, its mate wrapped around his arm just above his wrist. The custom's officer looked back down at his keyboard and didn't say anything. America wanted to ask what was happening, but he couldn't. He could have broken away because even if the human tried to put a hold on him, he was stronger.

He just didn't.

"Welcome home, Mister Jones." And he didn't understand why this was happening. He was America: he couldn't be treated like this. "If you'll just come this way please? And leave the bag: there's someone who needs to speak with you immediately."

"Do you know who I am?" He was staring at that passport, the one a second CIA agent collected from the man in the booth.

"We know exactly who and what you are, sir." Alright, so long as they got that part straight then he didn't mind turning around until he made eye-contact with the strong-armed, grizzly-faced special agent who was trying to smile his way through an arrest.

"Then get your hands off of me, and take me to my Commander and Chief."

* * *

**I keep re-reading it and I don't… think I did a good job with Feli's dream issue? It's so hard to use the crazy character to explain what it was that drove him insane, like it's something I really didn't think through very well and I have had no way to sensibly fix or change it since like chapter 18.**

**I would recommend re-reading chapters where Feli thought about or dealt with dreams "Safe and Sound", "Trigger", "Jagged Little Moments", this one etc, because some of you are really clever and are quite good at guessing at what I'm thinking. But on the other hand this series is almost 300k words long and one of my flaws is an author is never knowing when to tell instead of just showing what the confused character is barely seeing.**

**Give it a re-read and please, PLEASE, leave some feedback? If you're confused, which I expect most people probably are, please **_**let me know**_** so I can come in and fix it here and answer questions properly. With the tight schedule I've given myself to finish this story I can't guarantee I can slot another conversation about sleep and dreams comfortably into things. Maybe I can, but as of tonight I'm still working through the start of chapter 34, so I just don't know yet.**

**So please review, and I'll try to see you guys again on Sunday with another chapter!**


	34. Twelve Hundred Pages

**Whole Playlist, From Within, The World Is Not Enough, Skyfall, Unfinished Life, Vengeance, Not Nice, None Can Die, No Turning Back, Epica.**

**Aaaaaagh, two weeks to produce a chapter that's twice as long as normal! I kept going on about "done by 35", and yet I still have too much content. As a means of getting this thing done faster I'm going to keep the chapter length closer to what you see here, between 8-10k, and hopefully hopefully hopefully finish without cutting off plots and throwing far too much character development away (lookin' at you, Alfred).**

**Special thanks to Kitchen for proofreading for me again. I finished Romano's speech this time, yay!**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Twelve-Hundred Pages

Switzerland arrived late that afternoon and was shocked to see him answer the door. Frankly, Veneziano found it liberating to hear the doorbell again and for once not have to panic. He was awake, and now that the crisis was coming to an end he could finally think of something beyond the pain.

"You… you look a lot better. I'm glad." And Switzerland looked awkward standing outside their front door when he answered the bell. "But you look worried: I'm too late aren't I?"

"Please come inside. Have you had dinner?" Of course they'd come home after what had happened at work: his brother needed to clean up and let someone take care of the mess in his office, and Veneziano had needed to go someplace calm so he could think through what was happening. He had to put the dreams and the monsters out of his mind right now, he had to think about what their boss was going to tell Japan and Germany's bosses about holding two nations in custody.

Japan and Prussia were not sitting in holding cells somewhere in Rome, his Captain had interpreted the orders much differently and instead their so-called "friends" had been placed under house arrest. They were being kept comfortably at the Presidential residence and held under constant surveillance. Both of them would be released tomorrow after the meeting with France and the others. They hadn't discussed it very much yet, but Veneziano was still holding his breath hoping Romano would let him talk to Japan instead of making him face… him.

"That _idiot!_" Was the first thing Switzerland said when he saw Romano sitting at their kitchen table with a bag of ice held against his face. What was confusing was the way the blonde spun around to look at him quickly before flashing back to Romano, his expression unreadable before he gestured back at him with one hand. "Can I shout in front of him? Is that okay?"

"Uuh…" They shared a look around Switzerland's head and Romano just let his hand flop back and forth dismissively. He was sitting in front of several scattered portfolios and documents, working from home trying to iron out the financial business he'd been prepping for tomorrow. "Do what you want, he's fine." Well, he'd certainly never _liked _shouting but-

"That short-tempered _brat!"_ Switzerland fired off again, "I don't know what the hell Japan was thinking, letting Prussia know first and not talking to anyone else! Of all the stupid things to do- couldn't he have at least gone to fucking Canada, or maybe even you? Someone without a temper, or who knew what the fuck was going on!"

"Okay, how do _you_ know about this?" Romano closed his eyes, his words slurred by the way the ice had numbed the side of his face trying to bring the swelling down. He looked exhausted while Veneziano hovered right by their guest, watching both of them closely in case this was too much for him right now. Romano had been through a lot today, and today wasn't over yet.

"Hungary called Austria and I to Budapest and broke the news there-" Hungary? "And then she lied to us about where they were going!" Maybe Switzerland should sit down, in fact Veneziano insisted and then turned to go make some coffee- although maybe tea would have been better for the agitated blonde. "I only came here as a precaution, Austria was supposed to deal with things in Paris!"

"Even if Germany knows, it won't change anything." He stopped with his hand on the faucet, and he knew as soon as he glanced in Romano's direction that- "Don't give me that face! Germany's not some kid who's gonna walk away from helping us just because I didn't tell him about you sooner. For one, it's fucking good-sense to help us out, and two: you're not fucking dead anymore!"

"If you keep yelling your jaw will swell again." It was better than having this argument again, although with Romano's condition they hadn't really argued so much as just gone back and forth several times on the issue. If Germany knew, then could he really trust him not to act the way Prussia had? But if he didn't then how could Veneziano just walk into the meeting and take part like nothing had happened? They weren't here yet, the delegates would arrive tomorrow morning for the meetings in the afternoon, but they still hadn't decided what to do…

Veneziano just looked back down at the coffee pot in his hands, filling it again with water before carrying it back over to the machine. He couldn't see Switzerland's reaction as he started measuring and prepping for the different steps, but he heard their guest take a quiet breath.

"… How long can you two keep going without this Bail-Out?"

"Why?" Romano was quick on that point. "It's been well over a year since we started this process. I know everything was thrown off by the earthquake, but-"

"Italy, please just answer the question." They were both Italy, but Romano was the one handling the politics now. He was the one the rest of the world would see first from this point on because the balance between them had shifted.

"Not long." Things were different, and Veneziano was okay with that. "His infrastructure is still shot and our industries are in distress. Why? You're not part of the union."

"No, but I'm part of the World Bank." They were all part of that organization though, it was nothing to say- "And I know that England has already submitted an application on your behalf for an assessment."

Veneziano stopped fussing over the coffee and placed his hands on the counter in front of the machine, staring up through the window looking out into the shared courtyard that stylized the former villa. He had to just stand there for a moment and process what he'd just heard, the same way Romano stayed quiet and didn't say anything. They were both thinking it, but he waited for his older brother to speak up first.

"The World Bank… exists for the elimination of poverty." That was right, if Veneziano thought hard enough he could remember back to the founding of the bank, so there was no way to rationalize this. "Even if we fall into a revolution, the World Bank can't help us."

"England seems to think it can." Or he thought nothing else would. But they wouldn't need the World Bank if the European Union was willing to-

"Veneziano's the one who applied to the EU for aid in the first place," Romano pointed out, saving him the effort of saying it himself. "This effort came long before what happened last year, or last November, there is _no way_-"

"Italy: if Europe and the World Bank won't help you, how long do you have to find a new sponsor?" Oh no, he could feel it bubbling up again: not exactly anger, but nothing good either, something hot that unsettled his stomach. Veneziano walked back over to the table where his brother had thrown down his pen and was holding his forehead in his hands to avoid touching his tender face. He watched how Switzerland was leaning over in his seat trying to speak calmly, and as uncomfortable as the anger boiling up in his gut was, he touched Romano's shoulder and tried to speak:

"Alfred?" Romano's head shot up at the name, but he had his eyes pinched closed and his skin was flushed with something Veneziano didn't recognize. His brother took a deep breath and gasped his next words.

"America's President will veto anything that takes one American dollar out of their domestic economy." He was struggling with himself and shook his head, but he didn't pull away from Veneziano's hand. "If he could build a wall along the Atlantic then he'd do it. Alfred's been hiding _here_ for two months just trying to stay away from him." Yes, he knew about-

"What?" Romano brought his wrist up over his mouth, holding his other hand up to stop Switzerland from asking any more questions.

"America was here, but he went home yesterday so it's not worth bringing up. I only know part of what's going on with Washington: he didn't wanna talk about it." Switzerland didn't look convinced by any of this, but Veneziano didn't hold that unease against him. It bothered him to hear, or even to not hear what was going on with America. Someone as strong and wealthy as him should have been able to at least talk about what his boss was planning for the future. The world had been directly influenced by him for nearly a century, and over the last two decades America had dominated nearly every discussion he'd taken even half-measures to get involved with.

It was one thing for North Italy to cede control of their international affairs to his brother. Their arrangement was mutually beneficial, it was defensive, it gave them both a way of continuing to cope and move on with taking care of their domestic problems.

It was something else for the loudest voice on the world stage to choke and cut himself off. It was frightening whenever a powerful empire stopped eroding and began to actively collapse around you. Was that what all of this was?

"That doesn't change the fact that you need help, and after Europe America is your best bet." Romano was already shaking his head again at the suggestion, but this time Veneziano was able to come up with something to contribute:

"We've had an offer." An offer outside of Europe, and maybe it hadn't been sincere at the time, but there was still a chance for them. Looking down at his brother again, he knew Romano wouldn't want to discuss this in front of Switzerland, but it was important. "You said he wanted to make a deal."

"I don't trust him," Romano's voice was soft, but he said the words quickly, whispering them past his fingers. "I trust our friends in the EU."

The table went very quiet. Veneziano didn't want to say too much in front of Switzerland, Romano didn't want to hear anymore misgivings, and Switzerland probably didn't know whether he should get involved and crack the issue wide open.

"I…" All of that just made the silence uncomfortable, so when Switzerland decided to break it for them the brothers just looked up quietly. The stress of travel and politics made him look washed out at their kitchen table, the coffee forgotten and Switzerland's phone turning itself over and over again under his palm. "I think I should go call Austria. He'll probably want to be given a seat at your meeting tomorrow, but I'm not sure."

"That depends on what the others know." Romano answered quietly. He was rubbing his forehead and looking down at the paperwork scattered in front of him, and Veneziano still hadn't moved his hand off his brother's back. "And what we decide." Which meant having to discuss something Veneziano still didn't want to talk about…

"I'll go call Austria."

Switzerland left.

Veneziano sat down.

* * *

Spain was anxious and fidgeting to get through customs and make his way into Rome properly. He hadn't been able to charter a private flight from his own territory here to Italy, and getting a seat on the commercial jet-liner had put him a day behind all the chaos he knew was unfolding in Rome.

Japan had finally contacted him last night, but he'd only had a few moments to tell Spain what had happened before the connection was terminated. Of all people, Japan had gone to_Prussia_, and the rest had just been for Spain to figure out on his own. It was all bad though, there was no way he could tell himself otherwise, and instead of running to France or Germany he'd known he was better off coming to find Japan. If everyone who knew could gather in one place, then it would make it easier for them to break things down and explain it to those who didn't.

This was the kind of situation he'd been so worried about preventing, but he was barely through security before he heard a low tone pulsing through the air. The arrival bay was crowded, multiple languages calling out and mixing together as families and associates met and mingled in the decorated space. Spain only had his laptop bag and one wheeling suitcase with him, flipping back and forth through the documents in his hand looking for the nearest taxi exit.

When a man in a security vest stepped in front of him, the Kingdom of Spain tried to scoot around him. When another officer appeared he stopped short, confused by the lack of hostility around him but the very obvious attention.

"Mister Carriedo?" When he heard a name no human beyond his borders was supposed to know, Spain swallowed hard and let his suitcase stand straight, turning slowly with his eyes on the ceiling until he found a black camera resting between the ceiling panels.

Between cameras, flight manifestos, and flags on passports and digital documents, it only made sense.

"Which Vargas wants to see me?" But it still hurt knowing Lovino would flag his identity and stop him like this.

"The younger, sir." And then the hurting got worse.

* * *

They'd known it would be difficult.

"And what is this, exactly?"

They'd known it would be painful.

"That is our final decision as the European Union."

They had known for the last two weeks running up to this meeting what it would be an agonizing experience, one that would drag their collective names through the ethical mud, but it had to be done. This was the only way they could move forward as a functioning political body.

"This's at least a thousand pages."

"One thousand two hundred and forty eight, I believe?" England didn't want to ask Germany for the number, or to check if his guess was on the mark. In fact, he didn't even want to be caught looking across the table at the younger nation any more than he wanted to keep sitting here under the scrutinizing eye of the eldest one in front of them.

As little as one year ago Italy Romano had hardly been someone any of them would have considered intimidating. Now everything was different, and as the Republic of Italy thumbed the heavy stack of pages in front of him, England wanted to run away.

"Spoil it for me." Italy stated. He was sitting at the head of the boardroom table, his flag standing in a post directly behind him next to the dark blue of the European Union. The French, Germany, British and Austrian flags were standing in the four corners of the closed off, airless chamber deep in the bowels of an Italian administrative building. England couldn't even remember where they were in Rome exactly, because it didn't matter.

Italy was dressed up in a flawless white suit that, regardless of his political reality as the weakest nation here, kept reminding England of exactly whose house this was. His skin was a little dark around his jaw but it wasn't something England could spend much time examining, not with all of this tension in the air. His dark hair hadn't added anymore greys to it since they'd last seen each other a few weeks ago in London, and his green eyes didn't seem quite as sleepless, but now he was rubbing his upper lip with one dark finger and it was giving England hives.

He knew. He knew he knew he knew, either he'd known when the four of them arrived that morning, or he'd put it together right now at the sight of the documentation. Italy _knew_.

"Spoil what?" Italy knew and England didn't understand why Germany was dragging this out.

"The ending." Why did Germany want to make them sit in this awful room and go through this conversation piece by piece? Why couldn't they have announced it openly that the EU couldn't finance the Italian government? Why couldn't they have been brief about it, gotten it out of the way quickly in a corner of the hall before coming in here? Why did Germany want to do it this way? "I'll read it, but unless you want to sit here and watch me go through it you might want to answer the question."

England needed air, he could feel himself getting hot under the collar and it was taking centuries of proper training and behaviour to keep his hands from creeping up to his tie to loosen it. To his left, Austria was silent and staring at the table, across from him were France and Germany, and the latter was the one their host was addressing.

Germany had aged over the last year, just not as much as Italy. While the southerner had darkened and toughened up Germany's face had slowly begun to shed what remained of his full cheeks and the final dredges of baby fat around his jaw and throat. He hadn't dried up the way Italy's weather-worn and sun-cured skin had. Instead, Germany sat at the table now with an incredible hardness that seemed just as impenetrable from the outside as it was unshakable on the inside. His economy had slowed and was under stress, but it was still keeping him healthier than his counterpart: no age spots or grey hairs, no wrinkles around the eyes or creasing his lips. He seemed even larger and stronger now than he'd ever been before, like the deep green panels of his suit could barely contain him.

"What did you need twelve hundred pages to say?" Italy was blunt, but his voice was tame.

"No." Germany's was hostile, and England just wanted to take a deep breath so he could calm down. They only had to get over this one obstacle and then- "Our answer is a resounding no, and your government should not concern itself with submitting a second application at any point in the foreseeable future."

Oh-

"That's not quite what we discussed." France broke in quickly, leaning forward in his seat so he could be seen around Germany's wide shoulder. England's eye flashed between France and Italy, and he understood that Germany was still holding the host-nation's gaze and refused to surrender it. "The refusal stands, _but_-"

"-as long as you continue to mismanage your resources, any financial investment in your domain is guaranteed to fail." England felt his hackles rise as Germany put the issue bluntly, a chilling sensation running back and forth over his shoulders and sliding up under his hair.

"Mismanage." England's suit jacket felt like it was tightening around him for no reason as Italy repeated the word, and he just stared straight at Germany from across the table. Yes, that was exactly their reason for refusing to invest, but that was _not_ how he should have said it! "Mistakes have been made, but I've been explicit throughout these negotiations about where and what the problems are." England's heart was beating too hard in his chest, not too fast, just too hard. "I've held open correspondences with each of you, and-"

"And despite our best advice-" Oh, Germany, _stop_- "-you have consistently dragged your situation from one sorry state to the next, and now have the audacity to expect others to pick you up and carry you to safety."

"Better I keep dragging on than just give up." Italy's green eyes were open and staring as if the rest of them weren't even there, one hand still frozen on the documentation in front of him, his body strangely relaxed in his seat. He spoke without raising his voice, but England mentally filled in the _'you piece of shit'_ that was supposed to go at the end.

He found France staring at him for a moment, but before they could communicate anything across the gap Germany was already making things worse:

"Who's to say you haven't?" England held his breath, forming the words he wanted to say in his mind and- "Your own reports raise suspicions about corruption here in Rome. If you can't even keep your capital clean then why should we assume you're even interested in stopping them?"

"That's uncalled for!" England found his voice and stood up with it, absolutely refusing to let this discussion go any further. "We all know there are issues with security in Rome and holes in the bureaucracy, but to go so far when we have so much to get through today I-!"

"No, I think we're done." Italy interrupted this time, frozen in the same position as before, the pad of his thumb stroking the corner of the refusal package. He spoke in such a low tone that England had to stop just to make sure it was really him. It took a moment to recognize that Italy was taking slower, deeper breaths than someone who could be at ease, and that he absolutely refused to blink, but Italy was still calm in front of them. "Unless you'd like to repeat yourself, Germany?"

Calm being a relative term.

"I'll go one further-"

"And I won't hear of it!" France made a grab for Germany's shoulder and England was biting his tongue in Italy's direction, anger licking at him as he realized he didn't know who to focus on: they were both being hostile.

"_What the hell is wrong with you?"_ France was speaking quickly and under his breath, but he was just as wound up as England and it was too easy to hear him hissing through his own language. "_I know you said you didn't want to come here but picking a fight is unacceptable!"_

"Italy," So England picked up the slack so they couldn't all just listen to France's lecture. He had to wait for their host to actually look up at him, but then used honesty to make sure the eye-contact didn't break: "We cannot, honestly, afford the aid you require after the damage you sustained last November, and the parts we can afford can't be trusted in your government's hands right now."

"But-" Oh, and England threw that _'but'_ out quickly, watching Italy regard him with a neutral face and clear eyes that- "But none of us are about to forget the deep personal debt we all still owe you." Even if it had been his brother who had suffered directly for them, that Italy's death had become this Italy's burden. Everything their combined ignorance had caused had ultimately fallen on one nation's shoulders, so even if they couldn't give him the impossible they could still _help_.

"Sit down, England." Italy spoke slowly, obviously thinking about the words before he used them and gestured with one hand for him to take his seat again. When Italy's eyes slid past England for a moment, it was strange. "Austria, do they know?"

England had nearly forgotten that Austria was even in the room. His presence over the last few days had been confusing at best: he wouldn't say why he'd appeared in such a hurry from Vienna and had little to contribute to their business beyond acting as another pair of eyes and hands to compile the documents. He'd vanished repeatedly to make extended phone-calls that he wouldn't explain to anybody, and had been keeping a close eye on everyone else's correspondences. Now Austria cleared his throat softly from his place further down the table, and he seemed wary of speaking.

"No." Wait, what didn't they know? "I am as mystified by this as you are, as well as disappointed."

"I'm not mystified." Austria was rebuked and England took another closer look at their host, the chatter across the table dying down as France and Germany silently latched onto the new topic. Italy sat up in his chair and then laced his fingers together, resting his elbows on the table before allowing his hands to rest down on the dark wood. "But thank you for keeping your word. Switzerland is through those doors if you would like to speak with him."

"Why it Switzerland here?" Germany asked what the rest of them, save Austria, were thinking. With a slow scuffle of feet the uninvited nation slowly stood up, Austria nodding briefly to the table and doing so again respectfully in Italy's direction. Italy didn't answer the question until the door clicked shut behind Austria's back, and even Germany held his tongue waiting for the silence to break.

"Switzerland is here because he warned me not to rely you." England didn't know if that sounded like a lie or a perfect summation of Switzerland's views on Europe. "Austria just left because this is going to be awkward enough and I don't need to make him sit through it: I already trust him, and Switzerland can explain things to him better than I can."

"Explain what things?" France sounded hesitant, and when Italy looked straight at him without fidgeting or exposing any nerves, it felt like a warning. Italy took a slow, deep breath and then spoke:

"New legislation to deal with our internal corruption has been in the drafting and planning stages for the last four months." Four months? That put plans as far back as February- "Starting tomorrow, those new laws will be presented to our government for consideration."_ 'Our'_ Government?

Italy took another breath, but he didn't pause before looking up and meeting all three of them firmly in the eye one after the other. His voice wasn't quiet anymore.

"What I am about to say is completely off the record, and I am only saying it because I share a border with two of you and we all have extended economic ties." England was starting to find it hard to breathe… "If our administration fails to adopt these new regulations in a timely matter, if at all thanks to our _suspicions of corruption_-" The way Italy locked eyes with Germany could have peeled paint off a wall. "Then _that_, combined with my failure to secure economic aid will bring down the government."

"You…" England didn't like the quiver in his throat and swallowed quickly, giving it another go when he knew he could actually manage both the words and a smile. "You mean a vote of non-confidence, yes? Or an impeachment?" Italy was just saying he'd call a new election and change his Head of State. That was all any of this meant so- so why did he have such a vacant look in his eyes when England caught his gaze? He didn't even try to smile or scowl at him, he was just blank.

"So this is your solution?" Germany hissed, and neither France or England tried to stop him this time. "Instead of fixing anything, you really _are_ just going to quit?"

"I made a deal with my brother and I failed to keep my end of it, so now we do it his way." England didn't have to look at the others, he could hear the speechless questions and they only grew louder as Italy stood up and wrapped his hands around the brick-like binder sitting in front of him. "I'm not giving up anything you didn't just spend twelve hundred pages saying we can't count on."

"Stop pluralizing!" France choked, and while England felt his ears start ringing he saw Germany clenching his teeth and grinding them together. We? Our? Us? What was he talking about?

"Why?" Italy asked, as if it wasn't such a damning thing to admit. He hefted the paperwork up under his arm and then reached for something at his wrist. It took him a moment to unhook whatever it was inside the cuff, but then he pulled out a black length of wire and a tiny little… transmitter? It- that was a microphone!

"You recorded this _off the record_ conversation?" England knew his voice went shrill, but he didn't bring it down as Italy just left the plastic and wire on the table like it was nothing.

"He needed to hear what you had to say, but he didn't want to just show up at the table." He? Italy was up and moving around the table, walking straight for the door as he spoke quickly and without looking at any of them. "You can either go meet him at the south wing exit with Prussia and Japan, or you can leave the way you came in through the main doors on the east side." It was too much information and now England's stomach was clenching and hurting terribly in his gut. Italy was not saying what this sounded like…

"Why is Prussia here?" Germany stumbled over the question, England's head was spinning and he didn't know if he could stomach asking why Japan had come to Rome along with Switzerland and Austria.

Germany's question stopped Italy with his hand on the door, but not for long. He dropped his head only for a moment, sucking in a deep breath before looking up again and speaking.

"Because where you used words, he used violence." Why did Italy have to give such a cryptic answer? "So let me be clear about one thing, Germany. If you ever suspect, or allude, or out-right accuse me of consorting the Mafia or any other criminal organization operating within my borders or internationally ever again: I will have you personally barred from entering the city of Rome, and I will use my brother to keep you out." Oh god no…

"His ghost doesn't have that kind of strength." Germany was whispering, his volume lost as England looked at him and saw the way all of that uncompromising strength was beginning to rapidly wither inside of him. He wasn't looking older per-say, just smaller. When Italy looked back over his shoulder, England brought a hand up over his mouth and just held himself like that.

"Who said anything about ghosts?" How… How dare Romano stand there and say something like that without even pretending to care that he was hurting them? "The south exit, he's already there so don't keep him waiting."

The door swung open and South Italy swept out. England just stared through the open doorframe, and after a moment he identified the harsh wheezing noise as coming from France.

Looking across the table at one of his closest friends, France's blonde head was bowed, the unopened portfolio he'd brought with him trapped under his wrist. He was raking his fingernails back and forth over the thick paper, rocking back and forth slightly in his seat, and by the time England stood up and started hurrying around the table to reach him France looked up and spoke.

"What did we just do?" France was gasping, his blue eyes touched with red where he was struggling not to shed tears. He looked up at England as he set a hand on his trembling shoulder, but then locked his jaws and turned to look at Germany. "You! What the hell did you convince us to do?"

"France, stop." England had let Germany and South Italy turn on one another, but he got his hands on both of France's shoulders and forced him to turn around again, digging his fingers into the thick blue wool making up his suit. "Stop! Whatever you say now you'll regret later, so just-"

"Regret? _Regret!_" Germany wasn't saying anything, he was staring dumbfounded at the table and was no closer to picking himself up than he had been before South Italy's final statement. France on the other hand was wide-eyed and starting to shake from rage and hysteria. "I'll tell you what I regret- I _regret listening to you, Germany!_ This entire time! Every god-damned meeting since December and you're the one we've let control _everything!_"

"Yes, but stop now!" France's chair didn't have wheels or a pivot, which was good because it meant England could kneel down and stop him from getting up by keeping both hands on him. "Germany, go- I said _wake up!"_

It was obvious that Germany wasn't ready to move yet, but he tilted his head up just a bit before losing his will again. England didn't want to drag him to his feet when he already had France to deal with, so while the Frenchman started swearing at him and fighting to get up, England kept talking:

"Go and see him! Go now: you can find your way there without us- and call Prussia while you're at it this is probably what he wanted to talk to you about. Germany _go!_"

"Yes, go and explain how you've been so bitter about his death that you decided his brother should-"

"_Shut up, France!"_ Their conversation had already been recorded, and this wasn't something South Italy could damned-well lie about without expecting some sort of dangerous backlash. North Italy had been on the receiving end of that transmission, and when France started forcing his way up to his feet England chanced a nervous look back at the discarded wires and battery still sitting on the table: Germany was staring at it.

"This changes everything, but only because it shouldn't!" France shouted again, and England braced his legs before shoving the other nation back down into his chair, standing over him now and glaring down as he tried to get them all to maintain one _scrap_ for their dignity. "If he's not dead then it means everything we decided-"

"It means we were lied to, now _stop!_" Germany was standing up now, finally, but England kept his voice directed at France and refused to back down in the face of uncharacteristic and frightening tears.

France's face was a mess of angry red and sick white skin, his lips thin and grey as his fingers started grasping and England found their hands wrapped up together tightly. He was wearing such a painful expression on his face now, lips stretched down around his teeth and breaths hacking and shaking his shoulders. He could only meet England's eyes for a moment before dropping his wet blue gaze to his own lap, and England felt Germany's presence whisper past them before they were left alone in the meeting room.

"Francis, look at me." France just shook his head and England worked one hand free, watching the other man clasp the remaining one between both palms, fingers woven tightly through his. England reached for Germany's vacant seat and dragged it across the stone floor until it was right next to France, sitting down and bringing himself to France's level. "Francis."

"_I'm tired…_" France whispered, head down and blonde hair falling in a tangled curtain. England pulled a small white handkerchief from his breast pocket, leaning in on his own to touch the soft cotton to France's tear-stained cheek. "_So damned tired…_"

"I can see that."

"No, no Arthur you don't understand…" France didn't let his voice rise; it was just heavy breaths moving past his lips as he leaned into the soft touch. England half-expected him to take over drying the tears on his own, but when France just kept that tight hold on his hand England realized the other blonde was still trembling too hard to let go. Dragging his fingers across the pale yellow curtain, England gathered up the long strands and tucked them behind France's ear. "I… I'm so _tired_ of pretending."

"Pretending what?" He asked, watching France slowly let go of his hand and reach up to touch his own face. He ignored the handkerchief when England offered it, rubbing his cheeks slowly and ending up pinching his nose, with his palm covering part of his mouth. England just placed his hand on France's back and waited, feeling the way he sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, like he could hide the words behind the soft hiss of air.

"That everything's okay…" France let go of him completely and brought both hands up over his face, fingertips pressed down onto his eyes as he doubled over in his seat, shaking his head slowly. England held his arm and kept his other hand on France's back, scooting his chair closer until they knocked together and their knees were touching. "For Canada, for you, and Spain, and Germany, I- I'm so, so…"

"Francis…" They hadn't seen Canada or Spain for several long weeks, and the last time he could think of Canada needing France's help was all the way back… ten months ago, in August, in Bern.

"I want to cry." France brought his head up and it was clear that he already was, the tear-tracks were fresh and his eyes were leaking more just while England watched him, the smile he tried forcing on his lips was painful. "I am the Fifth French Republic, but I just want you to call me that name and let me weep." The smile started to break apart. It started in his crying eyes and broke down with a twitch in his cheek, and then one by one his straight white teeth vanished behind trembling lips and France dropped his head down again into his hands. "I'm sorry- just go without me."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Italy's waiting-"

"I don't want to see him, Francis-" Ah-! "Or rather, I don't think he wants to see us…" Adjusting his hold on France's arm, he made sure the other blonde could feel his fingers through the fine wool. He worked his hand down until he was holding France's wrist, trying to make him look up as the hand on his back reached around to tug on his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

"Go where?" France looked up at him and started wiping away his tears again. It was a vain effort, but he kept at it as England forced them both up to their feet. Once France was standing England actually found himself doubting whether he'd even be able to walk all the way to the east exit. Unasked and probably unwanted, he started straightening France's collar and pulling relentlessly on his tie and sleeves trying to fix his strangled appearance.

"Someplace where you can stop acting like a child, and just cry like a man."

* * *

Romano was still walking. He wasn't heading anywhere anymore, he was just walking.

If he stopped moving then he didn't know what would happen, but it probably wouldn't be pretty. If he showed up in front of his brother any more upset than he already was, it would just end badly. He owed it to Veneziano not to upset his little brother for no god-damned reason, especially not today of all days.

He'd been listening in on the meeting so he knew all the important details, now Romano just had to keep walking so he didn't break down into fucking sobs or start screaming out everything he was feeling.

And what was he feeling exactly? How about hurt, betrayed, insulted, and just a little too far beyond outraged to keep himself from wanting to drop to the floor and wail?

It felt like he'd been stabbed. He'd been doing alright up until that one point, that single moment, but as soon as Germany made _that_ kind of statement, Romano'd known he had to leave. If he'd stayed in there a moment longer he would have either thrown them all out or just burst into stupid fucking tears, because he couldn't handle hearing something like that, not from another nation.

A nation working with criminals? With the mafia? Like he was just opening the door for them and inviting them in for tea! Did Germany think he was taking kick-backs? Some kind of personal bonus on the side when any nation knew that all people like them needed was a shelter, some food and easy access to their population?

And then England getting mad about his _tone,_ not what he'd actually _said…_

Romano was choked up and dizzy, and just thinking about it like this made the heat in his skin even worse. His throat felt tight, eyes blurring as he passed repeatedly through pools of sunlight and walked by members of staff and the visiting public. He was wandering further from the closed off administrative wing, the opposite direction from his brother and the departing delegates. Romano was not going to let himself break down into screams, but when he felt his emotions overflowing and people started parting to get out of his line of sight, he knew being in public wouldn't help him right now.

If he screamed in public then Veneziano would find out about it, and Romano knew his brother's condition well enough to understand that he just couldn't _take_ that kind of stress on top of today. He'd already feel angry and betrayed by the EU's decision, but the North had kept quiet for this long for a reason: they had to know if they could really count on Europe, they had to know what the reality of their situation really was. If the rest of the continent couldn't help them because they _could not afford_ to help them, then both halves of Italy had already agreed last night that they didn't need to make the rest of the union feel like absolute failures because the two of them suddenly raised the stakes at the eleventh hour.

Now Romano had deviated from the plan, because after the meeting today he had planned to _take_ the other three to Veneziano. And even if they'd been rejected as Switzerland had warned, they had hoped to just sit down, explain everything, and get the crying and the tears out of the way before they could hunker down and just _figure something out._

Romano had thrown that version out the window, and as he swiped his card at a security door and fled down the next corridor, he had one hand up over his mouth and nose trying to control his own reaction.

Because to sit in that room and be called _corrupt_.

Not just his administration.

Not just his industries.

But he _himself_: he, _South Italy,_ a criminal.

To be openly accused him of _helping_, not just allowing them to-

Romano closed his eyes and saw his youngest brother unconscious on a hospital bed, head and body all taped up with gauze. Seborga still couldn't see properly out one eye-

He found himself going up a flight of stairs and grabbed the railing next to him, stopping mid-step when he thought about that cane Veneziano had to use because the pain of the infestation was crippling him.

And they thought he was _helping that..?_

"Mr. Italy?"

They thought he was hurting his own family? Turning against his brothers on purpose just to watch them suffer? If Veneziano had actually died then what they were accusing him of was tantamount to digging up the grave just to throw the bones through store windows. They wanted to belittle and reject every ounce of hard work he'd put into keeping this country in-tact since the day his little brother failed to come back from an afternoon hike with his friends.

"Is something wrong?"

That was what it all came down to then, wasn't it? That he'd taken Veneziano's job from him, that he'd tried to fill in and take over for someone who had vanished twice and couldn't carry the political burden for him anymore.

He wasn't his little brother. He wasn't the first choice for the job. He wasn't good enough to get anything done.

So he was as much the problem as the criminals opening fire on his family.

"Sir, are you alright?" Whose voice was that? Alright? Did he look fucking alright? He was trapped on a flight of stairs in his own god-damned building and he knew if he took one step up or down he'd fall. If Romano so much as loosened his grip on the banister he might as well just throw himself from a balcony and hope he broke every bone when he hit the floor. "Please say something!"

A hand took the heavy portfolio away from him, and an arm moved around his shoulders to hold him and give support. He knew without looking up or trying to see through the tears that it was Veneziano's Captain- the one they'd decided to promote to a Major as soon as the ink dried on the paperwork. He expected the human to pull him down, but instead South Italy found himself being coaxed and pushed up the last two steps to reach the next platform.

The door in front of them was propped open and it led to another corridor identical to the one he'd just sped down. There was sunlight reflecting off the same milky white stone and plaster of the rest of the complex, but the human didn't make him walk after that: he wanted an answer.

Romano felt the scream building in his lungs but he choked his way through words instead, looking up without enough shame to wipe away his own tears. He could barely see the human's face, but he was reminded again that, as ironic as it seemed, this man did not have a hero's face.

"_Leave Rome."_ He groaned, and by God he meant it. "Leave, go home, and don't you fucking come back until you know exactly what you want out of your life."

"Sir-?"

"To have a wife and ten kids, to breed dogs for a living, to become a fucking millionaire: I don't give a shit, just decide!" Decide, because by God this nation could not wait ten years to train and mature a future leader: they needed a human right now who could do the job. Destiny didn't have shit to do with it, opportunity was all a master needed. "My brother and I can favour you all we want, but only you can fucking make it happen so stop wasting our time: make your peace now so I can act."

The human balked, and Romano knew his tears were spilling faster and faster as he waited for the pilot to find his voice.

"Sir, I don't understand-"

"I know you don't, because you're human!" And now came the scream, and as much as he wanted to stay hunched over and small South Italy felt himself rising to his full height instead: "You're human! You're tiny and you're brief, but you're one of the most powerful creatures in this world! One human like you holds more power in your weak, fragile little body than I will ever know in a millennium!" Romano was screaming and he heard his voice beating against the stone walls, slamming into the windows and shattering against the glass.

"You think people like me are strong because we don't die? Because if you pulled out that gun and shot me, I would just get back up? You think I'm wise because I saw the fall of Rome and have watched the rise of every great nation since? If you think like that then you're wrong- because I had nothing to do with any of it! I am a Nation- _you_ are human!"

There was no heat in his gut, no magic coursing through him. He wasn't manipulating: he was speaking. South Italy had never been the most articulate nation; he had never been the celebrated bard or the master painter. His Empire had never risen and he had never been a God, but he was a Nation, and no one could change what that meant:

"Look at me!" The human _was_ looking: he was standing there and staring at him, dumb-struck and confounded as the Nation gripped the clothes over his own heart, pulling on them as if he could tear them off his back. "I am potential- but that's all I am! I represent the potential of the sixty-four _million _people who make up the Italian Republic: I am their potential to manufacture, and produce, and live, but that's it! I represent: I don't control!" But did this human even understand what that meant?

"I need a master!" If he didn't then Romano would tell him: "I need someone with sweat on his brow and blood on his hands. With a hammer over one shoulder and a gun in the other, I need a master who will dig up the roots, strip all the branches, and burn every family tree the Godfathers have planted in my flesh!" Families that were like a cancer growing out of his bones, tough and heavy- so heavy that there were days he could barely walk, and the pain they caused was so old he barely noticed it anymore. But now his brothers were feeling it too, and Romano couldn't keep telling himself he could fix it on his own without help.

"I don't care who does it, I don't care who rises up- I just need it _and I need it now!_" He needed change, he needed action: he needed a master who wanted to tear down and rebuild him from the ground up. Italy needed a human who wanted a solution more than he wanted his next breath, someone who didn't care how many political bridges they burned along the way so long as they arrived at salvation.

But the human had to want it just as much as the nation because North and South Italy were like any other set of countries: they could pine and want and hope for better, but the decision wasn't theirs. They were a dam getting ready to burst, and only human hands could guide all that power and energy once the water overflowed and came spilling down.

"We won't die if they get their hands on us." Romano felt his voice falling and realized his eyes were dry now: probably puffy and red, but there were tight tracks running down his cheeks where the tears had dried on his angry skin. "But I need you to leave Rome, and I need you to fucking decide what it is you want most out of this life."

"You want me to help so you're taking my job away?" At least the son of a bitch had a back-bone _but-!_

"I'm telling you to get the fuck out of Rome and go home!" Brief, weak, short-sighted little shit! Romano wasn't talking about his _job! _"And I'm telling you not to come back until you know what you and your generation want! I can't make you into something you aren't so _leave! Now!_" The human jumped back and Romano wondered, quietly under all the seething rage and desperation, what his kind looked like through human eyes.

"If you're meant to be anything more than a follower then you won't fucking need me to tell you what to do! But that-!"

"Sir-?" Romano noticed and then thrust a hand out at the thick binder the human was carrying for him. He saw his own arm shaking as he made himself remember what he'd gone through before getting it, but along with the shame came the outrage that was propping him up inside. The human stopped trying to say anything and just looked down at the EU crest in front of him, holding the heavy thing between two hands now before he curiously cracked the binding to look at the first few pages. Romano hated the sight of it, but God help him if he didn't cling to how the human seemed less baffled by having something tangible in his arms.

"_That_ is twelve-hundred pages of everything that's wrong with me internally." Corruption, and damage, and dishonesty, and- "Now I need a master who will fix _all_ of that…"

"Can one man do this alone, sir?" Dishonesty, and incompetence, and deception, and weakness… Romano felt his strength wilting again and the impossible weight latched onto his bones was dragging him down. His shoulders slumped and he let his eyes fall to the floor, not sure where his feet were taking him until he felt the small of his back hit the wall behind him, one hand grasping for the banister at the top of the stairs to keep him upright.

He was so frustrated and so tired that when he looked up again, South Italy still didn't care that he was beginning to cry again. He made himself smile and he didn't know where he found the will for it.

"All I need…" All Italy really, desperately needed… "Is for one man to _try_."

* * *

**Sad Author Note: because I'm going to be doubling the chapter length, I'm also announcing now that updates will be every SECOND Sunday. I've secured a part-time job that's keeping me extra-busy as the Christmas Season creeps closer, plus continuing preparations for my big move to Japan in mid-January. Lots of stuff going on, but I'm still working on this. **

**I will see you guys again on the 3****rd**** of November, not the 27****th**** of October. Please leave a review below and promise to have a safe and happy Halloween!**


	35. Cat and Mouse

**From Within, Vengeance, Soulseeker, Q Factory, Epica, Skyfall, World So Cold, Vengeance, Not Nice, Inception OST, Safe and Sound, Fighter, Sin and Restitution, Higurashi theme.**

**Ooooh my god this took forever. Why did you guys want the GerIta reunion? Why was this a thing that everyone really wanted to see? That whole thing took way, way way way too long to put together but it's in here, it's finally here.**

**Go read, I'm just gonna… sit… and breathe…**

**Wow…**

**And Congratulations to Anon!Reviewer Click Clock for graduating yesterday! I'm so sorry this didn't get posted in time, but it was gross and typo-y and you would have hated it. It's still raw actually, but it really is a lot better than it was last night.**

**If you're an American who has reached the age of voter consent and hasn't submitted their ballot yet, I'm judging you hard-core if you're sitting around reading fanfiction.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Cat and Mouse

"Romano doesn't know that you're here." If Spain had been told to guess which part of Italy had tracked his identity and ordered his arrest, he would have said South. Spain would not, for a moment, doubt Romano's ability to treat him like a threat after their last series of meetings.

"What do you mean?" He hadn't been treated badly at the airport, or shoved roughly into the car that had brought him here into the city. The men who'd escorted him through the government building and into this room had not been rude or unkind: they'd even brought him coffee and asked if he would like anything to eat after his flight. Spain had barely nibbled on the sandwich they brought him before the reality had actually set in for him, and he understood what it meant to say he'd been arrested by North Italy.

It changed things. If Romano had arrested and brought him here then Spain would never have been able to pick out how much of this was their damaged relationship versus Romano's overprotective nature. He'd have been stuck in a tangle of motivations and controls with no way of cutting himself free. It could have meant Romano wanted to talk to him, or work things out, or ask him what he thought was going on. It could have led to something painful and difficult, but if Romano had walked through that door and spoken to him then Spain would have known that they were taking steps towards getting them back on speaking terms with one another.

But it wasn't Romano who'd ordered him brought here.

And it wasn't Romano who opened that door and strode inside.

"I mean I'm not going to tell him that you're here in Rome, or that you even tried coming." It was uncomfortable to look up from his seat at nation who both was and wasn't North Italy. His face was still scarred, his hair was tied back and too red under his officer's cap, he held himself like a militant nation and there was something completely foreign burning under the surface. But North Italy had the same voice, even if he'd hammered every musical note or carefree laugh out of it, and despite the permanent scowl darkening his eyes, it was the same face.

"Why?" Spain was still sitting at the table where he'd been left. It was a small meeting room with no windows, a water-cooler and a few chairs, but when North Italy strode inside something about him kept Spain seated. "I came here to help. I know Prussia and Japan arrived before me and today's critical to you two: I have to tell Romano that-"

"I won't _let_ you," Italy hissed, and when Spain straightened up from surprise he realized why he felt uncomfortable: Italy's temper was at its limit. "I won't let you _near_ him after what he's been through already: I forbid it." Spain couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Italy use the word '_forbid'_.

"What happened?" The younger nation had his hands clenched in tight fists, his jaws locked and his stance shifting until his feet were spread far enough apart to brace him in front of the door. He wasn't hunched over or growling, but he was furious.

"_Shut up._" There was also something hanging from Italy's shirt collar. It had taken Spain this long to notice it but now he could see it clearly: a clear plastic coil was hanging against the dark blue lapels of his uniform, the wire feeding inside the tunic between the thick wool and his black shirt. He'd been wearing the ear-piece earlier, but now it was just hanging there doing nothing.

"Italy-"

"You don't even respect him enough to call him by the name he's earned!" Italy snarled, his voice hostile and eyes flashing with the rage he was barely keeping inside. "Don't act like you've changed: the last time I saw you in Rome you disrespected and assaulted him right in our own house!"

"You were still sick, Ita, you misunderstood-"

"_I saw you!"_ Spain wasn't going to be able to say anything without risking an absolute explosion from him, "Don't try to tell me what I do and don't know, because Romano told me how you treated him in Hong Kong, and others have confirmed it!"

"Others?"

"Hong Kong himself, for one." How on Earth had _Hong Kong_ come to know about-? "So I know how you were cold to him again in London, and how you tried to drive a wedge between us!"

"But that's a lie!" It was a biased story from Romano and it just wasn't true! "Italy I was trying to help you, I-"

"Your _help_ almost killed my brother yesterday!" Killed-? "Whatever you've been saying to people, whatever _you _told Japan when you went behind Romano's back, it just proves that he never should have trusted you! I won't let you hurt him again!"

"No! What are you talking about?"

"What did you tell them!?" Spain was speechless, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Veneziano this angry. His teeth were bared and his dark eyes open wide enough to show off the whites. It blew his reaction last December out of the water because this time it was obvious that he was strong enough to attack on his own without his family there to protect him. "How dare you accuse _my_ brother of keeping me against my will: of chaining me up like a dog in our house! Just because he didn't do things your way, you started doing everything in your power to ruin him!"

"No, I-!" Spain tried to stand up but was forced to sit again when North Italy stormed around the table at him, slamming one hand down on the hard wood and bending forward so Spain could see every furious line cutting into his scarred face.

"What do you think I am to him? Blackmail? Because that's what Japan's convinced of! Prussia almost landed himself in prison because he thinks my brother wants to start a war in Europe!" That's not what Spain had meant- "My brother and I don't have to explain anything to any nation outside our borders, but let me spell it out for you anyways: Germany didn't know about me _because I didn't want him to!"_

"But _why_-?"

"_Because I hate them!"_ He thought North Italy was going to hit him and flinched before he could stop himself, but all the other nation did was stand up straight with one arm held tight against his gut, his other hand still touching the table next to him. "They've turned their backs on the only other nation who's had the _decency_ to hurt like I have, and with _you_ to lie to them they've done the same thing to Romano! Men I could never trust to begin with, nations I can never trust again: you think I want them anywhere near me? Selfish brats who couldn't honour their own god-damned word to help or obey me every time I came to them pleading for their help! I died a thousand times watching them revert to back to their petty feuds, and yet people like you think that now that my world's collapsed, and my children are starving, and my monuments are gone, and the corruption is killing me, that I want to kneel down and kiss the proud feet of bastard nations _who won't even honour me in death but gladly insult my brother to his __**face!**__"_

The whole room felt like it shook as he bellowed the last word, and Spain found his ears listening for the sound of a lion's roar or an eagle's scream mingled with the declaration: it wasn't unheard of for their kind to call on something greater than themselves, to pull down an image greater than a man with a flag to represent the people. But that was all assuming Feliciano was speaking exclusively as North Italy, and if he was doing that then…

"If you won't kneel, how do the others know you won't fight?" He wanted to bite his tongue for asking the question, for acknowledging the violent fog descending over Italy and the rhetoric of discontent slowly roiling under the surface. But Spain said it and Italy's dark eyes flashed with a powerful warning as he brought one gloved hand up and pointed at him, his back straightening up and shoulders square.

"If I find out that you had _anything _to do with what was said in that meeting today, Spain, then you don't know anything." What the hell had Germany and the others said to him? Where was Romano? He watched North Italy peel his thin lips back over clenched teeth, and when he spoke again Spain couldn't control the cold dart of fear that stuck his gut. "Except this: if you've made an enemy out of me then I will personally take what precious little space my brother has reserved for you in his heart, and I will _poison_ it until he can't think of you without feeling sick to his core!" Spain couldn't control it when that dart turned into a seed that sprouted, wrapping its cold fingers around his spine and creeping up through his chest.

"Why?" He choked. "Who does that benefit? Why would you-?"

"_To keep him safe!_" Because if one half of Italy didn't trust him, then that meant the other half couldn't even decide on his own? "And to keep you away from him when I'm not there watching!" Spain closed his eyes when he felt the cold reaching into his skull and start squeezing tightly, pain blooming when he realized what North Italy was going to say before the words even left his mouth: "If he has me then he doesn't need someone untrustworthy like you! It's not even a choice: he threw his life away trying to find me! He invaded Switzerland for me! And he's worked himself to the marrow every day trying to stop what's been happening, so if disrespectful nations like you can't see that, then you can't see him either!"

"Italy please-"

"_No!_" The pain he was already feeling and the way Italy shot him down worked together to produce the same effect: Spain could feel tears prickling his eyes and clinging to his lashes, a sore ache building in his throat before he tried to swallow it. He didn't want to see that outraged face, and as much as his gut was twisting in on itself and screaming that this was wrong and he wasn't to blame, Spain took it.

It didn't matter who was to blame: state relations didn't depend on facts when there were more than enough emotions to cloud the issue. In purely political terms, their relations were irrelevant: Spain had hitched himself to Germany's economic wagon, and Italy wasn't allowed to do the same thing. They were two weak nations who couldn't affect one another on the world stage anymore, so it didn't really matter what happened between them on a human level.

But just because Spain understood all of this didn't make it any easier to give in and say what North Italy wanted to hear:

"I concede." There had been points in history that mirrored this moment, and the longer Spain kept his eyes closed the closer he felt his mind drifting towards those old, hatful memories. "I'll go home, I won't-" memories of trampled fields and spent gunpowder, the sight of his flag stomped into the muddy ground with the fledgling tricolour waving from poles over his head. "I agree to break off all non-diplomatic ties with South Italy." That time under the fading sun he'd surrendered territorial claims and legal guardianship over the adolescent nation holding a rifle at his head. This time Spain knew he was giving up far less, but his heart told him it was worth more. "And to request permission before entering Italian territory in the future."

"From me."

"From you." Stricter rules had been placed on their kind before, harsher demands had been fulfilled, but that didn't make this moment any easier. "May I go now?"

"You will be escorted to where Prussia and Japan are waiting." Spain didn't open his eyes willingly, but he had the strength not to reach up and wipe away the tears clinging to his lashes and blurring his vision. He didn't want to know if North Italy looked satisfied or smug, he just heard that tight, sharp voice dismiss him: "I've already spoken to them, and the three of you will be escorted out of Rome later this afternoon."

"Why the delay?" It wasn't Spain's place to question, but he looked up and he did it anyways. Italy only regarded him coldly for a moment, arms folded stiffly in front of him, and then with a brief glance sideways he answered with a huff:

"Because Germany's going with you."

* * *

How was he supposed to feel? That was the impossible question Germany found himself being asked after the nation he had been struggling with how to deal with stormed out of their meeting room.

And then France's words had begun to bite and tear into him. His entire world had been cracked down the middle when Italy repeated several times in his own cryptic way what kind of awful truth he had been hiding from them.

Germany's will to rage, or at least take insult, had dried up as soon as Romano told him what his brother Prussia apparently already knew. Whatever blessing or dreamlike quality the news should or could have brought him by now had been dashed by the delivery: Romano was preparing for a revolution. South Italy was getting ready for it to happen and North Italy was… what exactly? A pawn being controlled by the south? An unwitting villain? The mastermind behind everything, perhaps?

How about alive?

Yes.

That was the place to begin. North Italy was alive, now how did Germany feel about that?

He felt relief. It was a kind of potent, too-sweet relief that numbed everything else when he realized it. Germany's first and closest friend was alive, meaning that regardless of everything that had happened and been done to him, Italy had survived.

His first love had survived.

So the first response was relief, with joy taking second and love arriving third.

The high ended after that however, because after love came dread. What _had_ Italy survived? What had he endured and now what had all of that done to him? What was the result?

And how long had he been hiding? Germany wanted to ask himself if there was any way he could suspect the brothers of feuding maybe, some kind of power struggle in Rome that might have been the reason the rest of the world had been kept out of the capital for so long. But that theory was difficult to make stand on its own: all of Romano's statements and actions today had obviously been planned and prescribed. The transmission itself, if it was real, was proof: it had only been one way. Romano hadn't been wearing anything in his ears, and Germany was certain of it because he'd been seated close enough and so carefully focused on him that even a clear piece would have caught his attention at some point.

So they were working together. They had to be.

And somehow, he knew it had to have started within the last six months. There was no reason for Romano to tell them how long this new, volatile legislation had been in the works if not for that. Something had happened half a year ago to trigger this move and get the ball rolling. Six months put them back in February, and the only thing Germany could think of…

Hong Kong?

Spain.

'_There is something very important that Italy needs to tell you. Please go talk to him.'_ That was what Spain had said to him on the first day of that conference in China's domain. It hadn't been until much later that Germany had finally run into Italy nearly alone with Canada before the younger nation had retreated. Italy had seemed _hesitant_ at the time, but could Germany honestly say he'd devoted much time or effort into reading him?

Of course not. He'd been too busy battling with China for that entire summit: watching the nation who'd replaced someone so important to him and was otherwise incompetent hadn't earned a spot on his agenda in Hong Kong. It had still been too painful to expect that kind of behaviour from him, and Italy- _Romano_ had been at Spain's throat during and ever since that conference anyways.

Was this why they'd been fighting? Did that make Spain Germany's friend? He barely got all the way through the thought before he came up with a better question to ask: could Spain afford _not_ to take Germany's side?

He didn't like the picture his own mind was drawing for him as he walked: he didn't like these stops and divisions painting themselves with bold black lines across the globe. He didn't like reminding himself of the sore welt bleeding between Canada and his brother because it was a sign of the times. America's disappearing act had set off conflicts in every political theatre, and China had made no secret of the fact that he was keen and quick to fill the void.

They hadn't faced each other directly yet, but if the United States weren't going to defend a threat against Western Hegemony then the European Union with Germany to strengthen and power them would. This economic crisis would pass, this recession would end and Germany would be the one to lead the sustainable charge into the future. He would fight tooth and nail to keep China out of Europe, and before this stunt today by Italy Germany's focus had been on keeping Russia at home.

A stunt. That was what he was going to call this as he slowed his pace and nearly stopped in the marble hall. Bleeding and broken hearts could not distract political minds: it would bring down everything he'd spent the last nine months fighting to establish and protect if he let himself get carried away now.

Stunt. A small minded act by a nation who was as inept as he was old, someone who'd spent centuries with his eyes closed pretending he wasn't absolutely infested with corruption. Stunt. A low, lazy move taken by a chronic bluffer: revolution? He didn't have the guts! Romano was floundering in shallow water because he was so used to screaming at someone else to do his job for him. He was too self-entitled to pick himself up and do the hard work on his own, and he was willing to drag his brother down into the mire with him now that the north was too weak to do the job for the both of them!

This was nothing more than emotional blackmail! It was petty and reprehensible for Romano to use his brother this way, and the anger that thought stirred in Germany was what propelled him down the hall again, head high and prepared now for what was about to happen. South Italy was too immature and unskilled to know what was going on abroad, so self-entitled that he probably had no idea what was happening in Eastern Europe. With human and national pressures urging Russia to choose a side, the stakes had been rising for months. Russia had to make a choice: Berlin where he made his money, or Beijing where decades of foreign policy had made him a close friend and ally. Europe didn't have time for hackneyed plots and in-fighting from one spiteful little state when the security of their inner circle and economic recovery was under threat from the east!

Germany didn't even have to wonder where North Italy stood in all of this: after nearly a century of close love and something else, he could practically hear his something-more-than-a-friend's voice wailing at him for peace! Friendship! _'Can't we all just get along and go get ice-scream together?'_

That was North Italy. The only time Germany had seen anything to the contrary had been the definite and complete end of WWII, but that again had had as much to do with South Italy's betrayal as it had with the violence and bloodshed of the war. That much senseless death could push any nation to their limit, especially if their older brother and other half was there to stab them in the back!

How _dare_ South Italy hold Prussia like this? Where was he? Why hadn't Germany seen him yet if he was here in Rome? If Romano had so much as raised his voice at him then Germany would give that spineless, lowbrow Italian bookie something to scream about!

So Germany told himself he knew exactly what to expect when a simple human was waiting for him at the south entrance of the building. He wasn't confused when the young woman in uniform confirmed who he was with a brief and friendly question before leading the nation back inside and down a small corridor. She brought him to a secure room much like the one he'd just left, and then took up position next to the door after inviting him to go inside.

He told himself he knew this meeting would begin with timidity and pain, but that the relief and joy would come after.

_His _Italy had been shell-shocked and terrified in Venice, but Germany refused to allow his brother to control and take advantage of him like this. Germany would not let it happen.

"…Ludwig." But unfortunately,

"Italy…?" The man in that uniform-

"Stay where you are." -had other ideas.

* * *

How was he supposed to feel? North Italy couldn't even remember all the times he'd acknowledged what his mind and body were telling him over the months- the years really. Pain from recycled injuries, fear from repeated dreams, anger over his complete inability to make it stop.

Pain that had really been agony.

Fear that had really been terror.

Anger that had transformed into outrage.

He had been abandoned, hunted, victimized and targeted, so now how was he supposed to feel? Martyred?

If that was the case then the others had forgotten what martyrdom meant. A martyr didn't give everything just so people could feel bad and then carry on as if nothing had happened. If that was what the other nine wanted to do then they needed to pick a different word for him and find a different way to disrespect him. A real martyr died for what they believed in, sacrificing themselves as an example for others to follow and honour by trying to live up to those higher expectations. What had North Italy died for? Why had he told himself at the end of every loop, no matter how close to perfection he had come, that he had to try one more time to get everyone else out? He hadn't done it out of guilt, not by the end anyways.

He'd done it because he was in agony from all the losses, and because he'd been terrified of the outcomes, and because he'd been outraged by how futile the whole situation was.

Maybe they really hadn't known that he was still trapped in that haunted place with the white walls and bloody dreams. He'd taken that into account, hadn't he? Romano had showed him the letters he'd written and the words he couldn't remember scrawling on the torn-out pages of the journal. It must have been him even if he couldn't remember it anymore, he must have understood and forgiven them for what he'd known would happen. Maybe the others really were blameless for his torture.

But did that mean they were allowed to just walk away from what had happened, lives in tact, and pretend that being innocent meant they weren't affected? Because that was what this felt like: abandonment. Abandonment again because for the third time now he was dead to them and they wouldn't hold themselves accountable. They didn't feel like they owed something of themselves to the memory of the person that had died in his place.

So they were alright with leaving his people to suffer.

And they were alright with blaming his brother for the mess they claimed _Veneziano_ had created just trying to save them.

He wondered if they ever even thought about or dreamt of those other loops, those past realities, the ones where it was them who'd died for real and their civilizations had collapsed- not his. The worlds where England had thrown himself between crushing jaws and the British Isles had erupted into feuding and bloodshed all over again. The time loops where France had dissolved or Russia's cultural identity was purged by some violent, consuming revolution that butchered the people in their homes.

He wondered about things like that. Why else would he have hidden for so long? He wasn't ignorant about what words and ideas like that could do to nations, even arrogant, disrespectful ones like the realms bordering on and around him. If he'd let himself face them too soon then he knew he would have said something like that: told Canada that he was a federation bound by spider-silk and disconnection, or called Japan anachronistic.

Comments like those could do more damage between nations than anything their leaders wanted to say. To question their very foundation and presence, to ask by what right any of them stood up and said "I am who I am" in the presence of their peers, was an insult. Invasions had been handled with more grace and less resentment than questions like those.

You didn't just look at someone like Prussia and say "fade away".

You didn't just pull England aside and say "there is no such thing as _Britain_".

You didn't do it. You just did not do it. And if North Italy was going to be honest with himself then he had to be frank now the way he'd been with Romano last night: he still didn't know if he could handle standing on the civil side of that line without storming across it. He didn't want to do this and his brother didn't want him to do it either, but at this point neither of them had any options left.

If he walked away from this meeting with Germany then that would make Romano a liar. It would take today from a botched reunion into the realm blatant emotional manipulation if he wasn't waiting behind the door where he was supposed to be when the last person he wanted to see again was brought to it.

The rules were arbitrary and unfair, but he had to be here whether he wanted to or not. So now instead of letting himself continue to sink and dwell on everything that had been wrong for a long time, North Italy had to fight with and drag his mind into the present. Today, just today, that was all he had to make Germany answer for and then he could just leave: just go home or to wherever Romano was waiting so that when the next act started and swept them away, at least they'd still have each other to hold onto and support.

So he just had to focus on today. Money: that was all they had to talk about. Money.

Money and all of those awful, sickening things Germany had- no.

Just _money. _Just finance and trade and all the reasons why Germany and the rest of their so-called friends were turning their backs on Italy. Money ruled the world. It had rules, weight and restrictions: the whole package. You couldn't give away something you didn't have, or owe, or could budget for the next quarter. But they hadn't asked Europe to do the impossible either: if they couldn't then they couldn't and the brothers would sit down and read that report cover-to-cover figuring out exactly what had gone wrong so their next attempt could, if not fix, then at least acknowledge the issues. He meant what he'd said to Spain: he just wanted the truth. He wanted to know _why._

And if it was just business, then fine.

"Italy…?"

And if it was personal,

"Stay where you are."

Then he would make it _personal._

Because how was he supposed to feel when his first time hearing _that_ voice outside of a dream had been through a microphone? That voice had crackled and hissed via secret transmission because he hadn't known if he could actually bring himself to stand in the same room as the speaker. How was he supposed to feel when his world started to shake again? Or when he listened to what was said to and about the first person North Italy had brought himself to try and trust again after his ordeal? How was he supposed to take that?

Lazy.

Incompetent.

Corrupt.

_Criminal_.

North Italy knew he'd almost punched Spain because of the rage he still felt towards _Germany _was overwhelming. That kind of fury was what kept pushing his mind back through all the memories and piecing together every painful little fact about this world and the nations who made it so hard to live in. He couldn't disassociate himself from the mansion when his world was undercut like that, he couldn't forget about the eyes or the knives or the blood when the _voice_ was saying such unbearably cruel things. Such _false_ things.

Lies and anger were all it had already taken to scatter the fragile shreds of a nigh-forgotten fantasy. And in its place they'd brought back the dream master's lies and joined them with his new reality. He'd punished Spain with harsh words for letting his loose lips and petty feelings hurt Romano the way they had, but he couldn't really convince himself that Spain would do something to actually hurt or bring down Romano from the shadows. It wasn't Spain's way: even as an Empire his greatest vision of triumph had always been one-on-one, no weapons and no audience on some deserted island or lost in a meadow where two nations could fight and let God decide a winner.

Spain didn't count his allies or consider alliances, he'd marry if he wanted to but he wouldn't let that get in the way of his ambitions if he had them. Spain was reckless and predictable.

But Germany was not. They'd fought two world wars together- once as enemies and then again as allies, and North Italy knew that Germany never walked the same road twice. He didn't want to think about it but he had to, because he knew that if given half a chance now the larger, stronger nation would hurt his brother first in a conflict. Any conflict: political, financial, or combative, would see Germany taking shots at South Italy before turning around to deal with the North.

He didn't know if it even had anything to do with the last year of their lives anymore. Maybe the monster had nothing to do with what Germany had said and done today, maybe he'd just never quite forgiven Italy for the war.

Or maybe one of them just needed to break the silence. Stop thinking: start speaking.

"Did you mean what you said about him?" Germany wasn't taking the initiative so North Italy did it instead, keeping his back to the door and the person who let the latch click shut behind him, leaving them both in silence for too long. Not turning around was his very last way of delaying this moment, so he kept his hands behind his back and didn't let himself squeeze his wrist too hard trying to escape his thoughts and plunge into the moment.

"…Is that really the first thing you want to talk about?"

"Yes." He'd been over this in his mind already and North Italy did not want to delay: no whispering around the issue, just get straight to the point.

"Please look at me." He heard a small jump in _that_ voice and knew he had to do it. He made himself turn around slowly and unclasped his hands, setting his fingertips down on the table next to him but keeping his head bent. North Italy wanted the black brim of his hat to hide the other nation from him, he'd rather look at the table than look up. "Please, I-"

"No." He interrupted, because Germany didn't seem to get it. "Answer me." If the silence that followed hurt either of them, North Italy wasn't going to let it be him.

He heard the sound Germany made when he pulled in a lung full of air, and behind the brim of his hat North Italy felt himself holding his breath.

"Yes." And he kept holding it, just like he forced his head to stay down instead of snapping up when he heard that hard word hit the wall between them. "And you know I was right to do it."

"You're wrong." He didn't want to let himself spring up like he'd been kicked, he wanted to be able to lift his eyes slowly now that he knew how this exchange was going to go. North Italy had to look up now because he had to let go of the final guilty shreds of fear that still haunted him from hour to hour. He and Romano both knew that this was the last step he would have to take in this direction, and if it worked and he looked up into blue eyes instead of mirror-ball black, then he'd finally have the truth. He hated himself for still doubting, but in just under twenty-four hours Romano had woken him up and now he was standing in front of _this_ face with _that_ voice speaking to him. He just couldn't let himself keep running scared from the idea that he might just _wake up_ back where he'd started.

So he looked up.

"Am I?" And the fact that Germany felt he could challenge him _that boldly_ made him forget why he was supposed to be scared. "And is this honestly the only thing you're worried about right now? After everything we've been through all you're concerned with is Romano?"

"Yes," he snapped back, "because I know he'll handle everything else and it's you I don't trust." North Italy didn't even know if the word would have an impact. He didn't know if saying _'I don't trust you' _in straight and simple language would actually make the nation across from him stop and think for a moment, but if it didn't then he wasn't going to stand here and deal with him.

Did he want to talk about the mansion? No.

Did he want to talk about the others? No.

Did he want to talk about the earthquake, or the corruption, or the coming changes? Only if it would keep Germany out of their business.

"You aren't serious." Why wouldn't he be? "How the hell am I the villain here?" Don't raise your voice like- "I've had to deal with your death three times while your brother's dug a hole so deep for himself that he can't climb back out!" His eyes- "And the whole time I've been busy not letting this continent go to shit like Asia and the Americas, I not only find out that your brother has been lying and coercing my friends to keep secrets from me, but those criminals he keeps hidden and protected are trying to bleed every scrap of self-worth out of-!"

"Don't you _dare_ talk about blood and sacrifice to _me!_" He launched the words and didn't want them back, watching them strike Germany in the forehead like cold snow before his eyes narrowed and that heavy voice tried to fight back:

"And _that's_ the card you want to play after waiting all this time!"

"Card? You think this is some kind of _game?_"

"With the way you two have been scurrying around like _rats_ I-" No-

"I said_ stay where you are!"_ It changed things when Germany took that step towards him, it wasn't right and it made the walls contract around them. He felt that cold chill down his spine and he told himself no: he was just panicking.

He hadn't just seen that. He was awake, damn it- _awake!_

"What's wrong?" It was different seeing the way his outburst made the fury on the blonde's face fade. Germany wasn't calm, but he dropped his shoulders where he'd been hitching them up higher and higher to make himself look bigger, his hands still clenched but not as tightly as before. Germany didn't move back and he didn't advance again either, but the breath between them lasted for a moment before Germany broke it with a scoff. "What the hell has he been doing to you?"

"Stop blaming him-"

"I will make him take responsibility for what he's done- look at you! You're shaking!" No.

No he wasn't.

He clenched his hands and dropped his head, eyes closed for a moment.

He wasn't shaking.

He forced his shoulders to loosen and he shifted his feet on the polished floor, willing first one deep breath and then another into his lungs. He felt pain nagging his sides from the yelling and the ache travelling down his arm from the elbow to try prying his fingers out of their fist. He hated and rejected the pain though, he wouldn't tolerate it right now. This wasn't the time and he wouldn't let himself buckle because someone had planted another car-bomb or dragged another business from the public sector into the private backwaters. North Italy wasn't _shaking._

But when he opened his eyes again, Germany was _closer._

Don't think- react.

Don't hesitate- just move.

"Let me help-"

Knees bent, weight back, _jump._

His whole body screamed with pain when he made it move the way it hadn't since the poison had set in, demanding speed he hadn't used since that knife had last cut into his skin and left him blind or mute or whatever _those_ eyes and _that_ voice and _that smile_ had wanted. He heard the air blow by him and felt the whole room tilt before even questioning if he'd be able to keep his balance, but he didn't care: he _moved._

His feet caught the floor and pushed again, going and going until he hit the wall and felt his head crack against the plastered stone. He choked on air and caught himself with stars in his eyes, both hands touching the wall as he kept his feet and left his weight on his toes. He felt his bones beginning to throb and the way the Cancer had eaten through what muscle mass he'd gained back since the catastrophe. He wasn't fit enough to run anymore and when he swore to God he saw that heavy body wrapped in darkness coming closer he-

"_I said stay away!_" Not again, not again, not again, he couldn't do this again he'd die: he could not go through this even one more time he would _die._ "_For once in your life just listen to me!"_ If he fell down he'd die, if he ran he'd die, if he stood here he'd die, if he kept screaming he'd _die all over again._

"Please stop, what's wrong?" _Now_ North Italy was shaking, but his whole body hurt too much to make it stop. He could see clearly again but had to pull his weight back off his toes and press against the wall trying to stay upright. It meant he wouldn't be able to move as fast if he had to dart away again, and he didn't know what his fingers were wrapped around until he recognized the weight of his phone: Romano still hadn't given him his gun back.

He should have just taken the Captain's gun. He should have but he hadn't and now he was weaponless and cornered with nothing but a useless device to try and call out with.

"Italy, sit down."

"_No._"

"Why not?"

"I don't _want to_." He didn't trust him, he _couldn't_ trust him even when Germany's blue eyes put on that hurt look and swept around the room- probably checking for exits. "I want my brother."

He shouldn't have said that.

The way Germany's face darkened- _shouldn't have said that._

"When I get my hands on Romano again I-"

"Finish that threat and I'll do double on Prussia." Again: Germany had said when he got his hands on Romano _again._ Why had he said that? What did that mean?

The thought killed the trembling in his body because the pain gave way, as it always did, to that terrifying kind of outrage, that burning, boiling brand of hatred that didn't care how tired or sick or weak he was anymore. It just cared that Germany was threatening his family, and he was _sick_ of people attacking his brothers behind their backs.

Somehow that fury just dug in deeper when he realized the shocked look Germany was giving him had already starting to melt into his own brand of outrage.

"You wouldn't dare hurt him."

"Leave my brother alone and I won't have to."

Stalemate? Not quite.

"When did you let him turn you against the rest of us?" It was a filthy question to ask and maybe if his body had had the strength for it, North Italy would have lashed out for it. Instead he had to do what Romano and everyone else had been encouraging for months, and he said it:

"When he brought me back to life after the rest of you left me for dead," he hissed, and before Germany could open his mouth he kept going: "Or maybe it was after your Italy, the one from this loop, screamed at you for all he was worth to turn around and not enter the mansion. When he begged and swore that someone would die and how much he didn't want to go through that torment again." He hadn't… _said_ this before.

"So maybe it was when he died on the second floor."

He hadn't… mentioned _him._

"And the only way to snap you out of your guilt was for me to slap you across the face."

Germany was staring, but Feliciano kept talking.

"And that taught me something." Something very, very important. "So that after the rest of my friends were dead, and I had to cradle Lovino in my arms because that Thing with _your face_ had slashed his throat, I knew what I had to do."

And they really did have the same face now. Ludwig hadn't looked quite like this: not this hard, not this thick and heavy. His jaw had been wide like that but much softer, his cheeks had been fuller and he hadn't held himself so stubbornly on the floor. This one was rooted to the tile like he thought he could carry himself like a master through a palace, not a guest in another's home. This nation was closer to the power-hungry Empire that had almost destroyed them both completely, not the sometimes-skittish young man whose integrity had pulled his people from the depths again and again to success.

This wasn't his Ludwig.

This was the second Germany.

"I knew that the only way to get any of you out with your lives was to wait for you to watch your Italy die: _just _so you would finally understand how serious the situation was, because God forbid any of you would actually believe me just for showing up." Guilt. _Guilt_. Feel it, suffer with it, let it sink into your soul: Feliciano had sat and he'd waited and he'd listened to it happen. It was a shade of a memory from inside another dream but he _knew_ that that was what how he'd brought the cycle to an end. Feliciano had waited for Italy to die because the other nine were too _self-entitled_ to take another incarnation's word. "And for good measure I brought a gun and shot the first son of a bitch who stood up to me."

"You don't mean that…" Germany whispered, his blue eyes wide and white skin pale as he finally took a step _back_. "You don't mean any of it: it's just the corruption talking."

"Go away and take everyone else with you."

"Italy-"

"Go away," he repeated. "And don't you dare interfere with us or try to hurt my brother: he _does_ speak for all of Italy and that's no one's business but mine."

"And how do you know he isn't just using you?" How_ dare_ he- "Italy _please_ just stop and think for a moment!"

"You said it yourself! _There's nothing in me worth investing!_ What is there to use? What's worth lying over?" Nothing. Germany had said it without being asked and he'd dashed their hopes of staying on the side of Europe. Feliciano was broken and toxic with nothing in him his bosses could even think of sprucing up and presenting in a new package to the financial powers-that-be. "Get out, Germany- _get out!_"

"Italy-"

"_Out!" _Get out of this room get out of his building and his city and his territory. Go away and don't come back, don't _ever_ come back, just leave and- "Don't-!"

"If I'm leaving then you're coming with me-" _NO!_ "If you think I'm going to let him corrupt and tear you apart again then-"

"Says the ghost that butchered my friends!" Germany stopped dead in his tracks again and this time North Italy wasn't going to let him recover: he was already moving, sliding down the length of the wall before pushing away from it and side-stepping around the table. He knew not to take his eyes off of him and didn't care that he was scuttling away in his own territory when he was supposed to have the home advantage. None of that mattered right now, space mattered: _getting away_ mattered. "Stay away from me!"

"Where's Prussia?"

"Someplace where I can have him shot before you can come within arm's reach of my brother." Not exactly true, in fact probably not true at all. Prussia wasn't alone: Japan and Spain would jump to help him immediately, and the only personnel around him weren't trained for those kinds of cruel orders. But Germany didn't know that and Feliciano jumped on the lie as his hand found the doorknob and twisted.

"Collect him and get out of Rome: don't let me catch either of you invading my territory again."

"Italy…"

"Germany."

With the whole room and a table between them, Feliciano slid through the half-open door and let it snap shut. Without even a nod to the woman in uniform standing guard he took off running.

No more thinking.

Just run.

* * *

"Hey, it's me." It was a call Romano hadn't wanted to make, but they'd discussed it last night and the brothers trusted each other. They would get through this: they would go to the last person, the one they knew they couldn't trust, for help and they would get through it.

"I'm sick of waiting for Euros and Dollars to get their shit together, China." But just because they'd talked and agreed to it didn't make the moment any easier now that it was here. Eleventh hours really sucked that way. "If you meant what you said back in February then make good on it now: be a friend to Rome."

China hadn't answered his phone when Romano called. Maybe it was a tactic to make him record his voice like a trophy, maybe it was just or too early in East Asia for the old empire to answer a call. Romano didn't really care what the reason was: he just threaded his fingers together, elbows on the arm rests of his chair, and let the quiet sink into him.

His files and paperwork had all been cleared away, report after frustrating report signed and stacked or ignored and pushed away for later. His curtains were open to let the sun in across the marble floor, and the scent of bleach was still hanging in the air where it had been used to sterilize the floor after the bloodshed yesterday. With the doors closed he couldn't really hear anything: no voices or telephone trills, the stuff of office ambiance. His laptop was powered down and closed on its cradle, only the soft tick of his wall clock and the distant drone of traffic keeping him company. No one was to disturb him for the rest of the day.

South Italy was waiting, because although he doubted China would get back to him in a t imely manner- or maybe he would, who knew? Romano still needed to be here.

When the door rattled and begun to swing open without a pause or knock, Romano pushed his chair back and stood up, stepping out from behind the big desk as North Italy slipped inside, eyes on the floor, and quietly latched the door behind him.

"How did it go?" Romano asked, pulling a handkerchief from his suit pocket when Veneziano touched the backs of his fingers to his nose. He didn't look up even when Romano stood in front of him and let him take the soft white cotton. He didn't shake his head or make a sound for a long moment. "Veneziano?"

"I hate them." Harsh words, but the way he mumbled them from behind the handkerchief softened the meaning. The way he finally looked up with wet, red-rimmed eyes hurt them both enough that Romano didn't feel sympathy for whoever was outside this room. "I really do: I don't understand how all of them can be so-"

"Shh, hey- look at me?" Setting his hands gently on his brother's shoulders, Veneziano's eyes dropped a few of their tears before he tried hiding them with the brim of his hat. When Romano coaxed him to look up again he watched his little brother hold his breath and start to shake. It broke his heart. "It's gonna be okay, remember?"

"But that was _awful_-"

"I know." He did. "I know and I'm sorry, Veneziano." Would he let Romano hug him? He had to actually try and hook his arms around his brother's shoulders before he understood the gesture and stepped closer. He felt Veneziano's arms creep up and fold around him, petting the back of the shorter one's head as Veneziano pushed his face down into Romano's shoulders. "I'm sorry I lost my temper," he admitted, acknowledging his own guilt. "I should have handled Germany better."

"He meant what he said-!" Shh, calm down… "He tried defending himself and when I confronted him he said more awful things!" Fucking kraut- "He's going to tell everyone all these lies and Romano I won't let him!"

"Calm down- calm! It's okay…" Squeezing his brother a bit tighter, he felt Veneziano surrendering to painful, frustrated tears, and Romano just clenched his teeth telling himself he wasn't going to let Germany anywhere near his brother again. "We're gonna be alright, Veneziano." Romano dragged his hand up and down his brother's back, rubbing his shoulders firmly so he knew he was safe with him again. "I already called China, and once we make contact with him then everything will be okay."

"But you said we can't _trust_ China." It hurt so much to see him this upset about everything, but Romano just kept holding him and clung to the fact that he was being more like his old self now than he'd been in months. North Italy was _supposed_ to cry when he was scared…

"And we can't, but do you trust me?" It was an honest question, and asking it at what felt like the end of one journey and the beginning of another, Romano didn't p put the words to him to make a point.

He felt his other half take a long, deep breath trying to pull himself together, tightening his arms behind Romano's back before he sniffed once and tried to lift his head up. Romano didn't expect the kiss on his cheek, but he couldn't lie and say he didn't like the very brief, very soft feeling of warmth that came from it.

"I trust you more than I trust myself sometimes."

"That's a very dangerous habit to get into, little brother," Romano warned, but he finally returned that kiss on the cheek, adjusting his arms without pulling away from his other half just yet. He tried to make Veneziano look at him, and when he saw those bloodshot eyes he scraped away a few of the tears before saying something they both needed to hear and remember:

"Never trust a word China says, Feliciano." He whispered, both because of the secret name and the weight these words carried. "As long as you and I stick together we'll be able to make it through this in the end. But we can't let anyone get between us: not China, not Germany, not even Spain or America. Do you understand?"

"Of course I do." Good then, and Romano didn't feel bad about placing another kiss on his brother's forehead this time. "But…" A pause and a swallow, and he listened as his brother put the question together:

"But how do we know how long it'll last?" It was Veneziano's turn to whisper this time, and he had every right to sound so scared. "Watching the government fall, what if it leads to civil war?" What if no one filled the power vacuum, that empty space at the top of the pyramid where their flawed, paralyzed leaders were supposed to stand? What then?

"I have good news, actually." Good news he didn't mind sharing because he knew his brother could handle it, this had been his idea in the first place. "It's about that person we talked about."

He watched Veneziano perk up a little bit at the change in topic, like he was confused by the idea that something might have been going their way for once in a very long time. But that vacant look slowly sharpened into something with more focus: he was listening closely and Romano tried to make himself smile at least a little bit as they slowly pulled away from one another to stand comfortably.

"I think we've got a good chance now." But it was only a chance: humans could die and movements could fail. Once the laws started unravelling there was no guarantee they would be drawn back up the same way: the two of them could ignite a patriotic fever to keep their boarders together, but that would be the extent of the Vargas Family's interference…

"As long as China helps us." His brother murmured, and Romano placed a hand on his shoulder so he could walk his sibling around and make him sit in the chair behind the desk. For himself, he hopped up on the corner with his hands in his lap, watching the way Veneziano was spinning his hat between his hands. He recognized the anxiety at once.

"Whatever you're thinking, just say it." Otherwise he'd just sit on his words for weeks, a bad habit all this shit had forced him to develop. He still didn't chatter enough for Romano's liking…

"It's just…" Spit it out. "You can't let Germany interfere." Veneziano looked up at him and it stopped Romano from responding right away. He didn't want to say it was fear in his brother's dark eyes right now, so it was better to just call it conflict.

"Do you think he would?"

"He said as much." And that was a good reason to feel conflicted. Romano could feel the anxiety scratching at his insides and placed one hand over his mouth slowly, just to show he was thinking so Veneziano didn't demand an immediate answer. "I don't want him to cross our border."

"He wouldn't dare."

"If he said it was a relief effort?" No, no, no, all of this was making his head hurt. The day had lasted too long and now too much of everything was out of Romano's hands. They needed _China_.

"We can't trust China but we need to tell him everything." Secret-keeping would hurt them, and from this point on it would be impossible anyways. "We know what we need to survive, so I'll double that and then at least we'll have some room to barter with him."

"Do you think he knows about me?" They were just repeating the same conversation they'd had last night, but maybe they were both too tired and anxious to care.

"If not, he will soon."

"How long do we have?"

"Not long." He wanted China on a plane by the end of the week at the latest, he wanted him in contact by the end of tonight and he wanted his proposal revamped and ready come-what-may so they could get through this quickly. Their government wasn't going to fall tomorrow, but there were only so many _'tomorrow's_ left before it would.

"Are we…" Veneziano trailed off and Romano knew what he was trying to ask, the two making eye-contact while the younger one's composure began to crumble. It started in his eyes like it always had: first with red staining the rims, then the shine of tears before they started collecting on his eyelashes. By the time the water was beading his lips had peeled back and he was trying to swallow the sounds kicking around in his chest. His whole face began to crumple and Romano reached out across the gap between them to cup Veneziano's head gently in his palm, watching him close his eyes before doing the same thing and bringing their foreheads back together.

"Yes." He said quietly, sliding off the desk and staying bent over so Romano wasn't towering over him. Veneziano's hat hit the floor when he reached up and grabbed his wrist, but it was a needy hold and one he encouraged by letting his other hand join the first one. "Yes, we're going to be alright. We're going to get through this: I just need you to trust me."

"I trust you." He kissed his brother's thick red hair and heard him choke on a desperate sob. "Please don't let him start a war- not another war, please!"

"_Shh…_" He'd feel better once Romano got him home, but for a few more moments he let his brother press his face up against his shoulder. He'd feel better once he was out of that uniform and eating dinner, and they weren't going to talk about this again until tomorrow.

If only tomorrow wasn't going to come at them so soon…

* * *

"It's been long enough: arrest me or release me."

They kept him in the cell for over sixteen hours.

"What are the charges?"

They fed him, but took away his wallet, phone, and the rest of his belongings.

"Where are my rights?"

Someone said the words "Patriot Act" and Alfred F. Jones almost put his fist through the steel door locking his cell.

"I am an American Citizen! _Give me my rights!"_

There was no camera inside but he refused to sleep anyways. He also didn't waste his time or energy raging around the tiny dimensions of his prison though: just sat down on the thin foam mattress on a metal shelf and watched the door.

There was one tiny window showing day and then starlight, but it was eight feet off the floor and too narrow for an adult human body to climb through. He leaned back against the grey concrete wall behind him and waited.

A nation without distractions was one quickly overcome by their greater self. You couldn't really fool someone like him with trick meal times or disturbed sleep schedules: not unless he was injured or in dire straits from some kind of calamity. But even with his health that wasn't nearly as strong as it had once been, and his strength that just kept sliding downhill as policies were reversed and laws forced to change, time was easy to track. Boring, but easy.

He wasn't in New York State anymore, they'd driven him to Pennsylvania He could feel anxiety and discontent beyond stone walls, patriotism mingling with worry and maybe even a little bit of fear. It was upsetting for him to be able to feel it when he was actually isolated from his people, but that just proved how strong it really was.

"You said my boss wanted to talk to me, so what's taking so long?" He asked when someone who wasn't a security guard came to stand outside the steel door. America's breakfast dishes were empty on the floor by the slot where the tray was pulled in and out, the eyes of one of his senior intelligence agents peering at him through the green grooves.

"The President is giving a speech in Colorado this afternoon," fucking figured. "He should be telephoning in by the end of the evening." He'd just finished his _breakfast_. America could feel his people getting up again for the daily grind and knew how much bullshit was being spoon-fed to him through that door, so he did something he hated.

He dug down deep- eyes closed and breaths relaxed. He had Texas held gingerly between his fingers where he'd taken the glasses off to rest his eyes and spare them the sight of so much boring grey. He looked for the deep seated anger and resentment, felt the questions and anxiety, dove further and felt himself losing touch with the young man in a cell in a Pennsylvania State prison complex. He went as far into himself as he could with only a few moments to spare, and when he came back up for air Alfred F. Jones gave his government a reason to keep him locked away:

"Tell the President he either speaks to me, or he's a dead man walking."

* * *

**That is NOT where I wanted to end Alfred's part, and I had another section for China that I bumped to 36 for the sake of pacing. Alfred was even harder than Feli to make co-operate though, so I know this little piece here does frankly nothing that the scene two chapters ago didn't do better, but… ****He's the first part of chapter 36 though, I promise.**

**See you in two weeks' time!**


	36. The United States of Alfred

**Skyfall, Epica, 24 Hours, Memories, Lost In Paradise, KRWLING, Human Legacy, Not Strong Enough.**

**Eeeeey, real life, what can I say? The majority of this chapter was written at my job on breaks lasting anywhere from 45 minutes to just 10. It wasn't so much that writing that took forever as it was making myself finally sit and type it all out. It's still quite rough and I apologize for that, but I think I basically went the whole month of November without updating.**

**I really did want to get Recovery done by the 14****th**** of December for Final Loop's first anniversary, but I know how much content I have left to get through, and there's no way I'm going to find the time in the next 5 days.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

The United States of Alfred

"You, you're my hate."

"_Excuse me?"_

"What I mean is," he hadn't wanted them to do this over the phone, but they refused to ship him out to Colorado to do it in person. Instead, they brought in a laptop on a steel table and they made sure to handcuff him before loading the program that showed him his President's confused and irritated face.

"I mean I was really, really angry after we got out." But at least they could see each other now. It was their first almost-face-to-almost-face meeting since he'd been told to leave his own government. But what mattered most right now was that America was able to just sit down across from his Boss and _speak_ to him. "Everything I tried to be and inspire was made a mockery: freedom, choice, even man's ownership of his own soul."

"_Agent, I think Mister Jones is unwell. I'm a very busy man and this-"_

"Don't piss me off, Mister President." America warned. "I'm already so mad at you, Mister President, mad enough that I know I'll do something I'll regret if you don't shut up and listen to me." He watched the man through the screen forget his mouth was still open and stare at him across the connection. He took it as acknowledgement and resumed a carefully prepared little speech.

"America." His name. "Canada," his brother, "England." His- "France, Germany, Japan, Russia, China, Italy… and one time Spain. Something awful happened to ten, almost eleven of the world's nations." How open had the others already been with their bosses? It didn't really matter. "Call their leaders, get in on the rhetoric, Mister President, and ask the Prime Ministers and Majesties of the world if anything strange happened after the Bern Conference- they'll know what you're talking about."

"_I don't understand."_

"Then shut up."

"_Who the __**hell**__ are you?"_

"I'm one of the people who exists, Mister President, without really existing." Idiot. "I wasn't born and I don't really know what it'll mean when I die, but you've always been right when you called me a young man." America dropped his head a little, breaking eye-contact with the little black lens on the computer's edge that let his image on the other end stare straight through into his master's soul. "I'm young and I'm green and I've let this shit get the best of me, so I'm sorry." And he really, really meant that.

"_Mister Jones,"_

"People like me don't really see people like you, Mister President, did you know that? "

"_I-"_

"I didn't know, not really. I didn't know that we weren't creatures that could see gender either: it just wasn't something that came up." Someone had probably told him at some point thought- England no doubt, or maybe even Italy or Japan years ago. "But we don't. And I know we don't age or bleed the way you do: I've lived twenty lifetimes and it's barely left a mark on me."

The man on the other side of the screen was hush now, probably overwhelmed. But America didn't look up to see or confirm what, if any, kind of impact his words were really having. He just said them:

"Humans are such fragile things." Temporary and easily led astray. "That's why I've been able to figure you out just in the time since you left me sitting here: you're my anger."

"_Now just stop for a moment and listen to yourse-"_

"You're a real man, Mister President, a real man with a past and a future, a family and ambition, but-" America dropped his voice now but he didn't make it weak. He wanted this man to listen, not mistake him. "But you only climbed up to where you are because I was so fucking mad at myself and the world that I prayed for anyone, anyone at all, who could take me the hell away from them and all those haunting faces."

"_Mister Jones, are you seriously trying to suggest that you had some kind of hand in the election?"_

"I'm saying I **am** the election, Mister President." Maybe it wasn't something the United States of America wanted to say out-loud, "I'm saying that Alfred F. Jones, the man with no past and no future who doesn't even exist in the present, has voted for every President of these United States since I told Washington that I wanted Freedom and I was going to fight my own god-damned brother to get it." America had shattered and transformed that bond with the empire by accepting and feeding off the patriotism of his Children, and by letting himself grow into the nation they had built with every hammer-swing and whistle blow. He had led the charge out West and fought his brother in the north, challenging Spain and driving Mexico to the south while crushing dozens of smaller, ancient nations into the dust.

"I'm telling you that I voted in anger, Mister President: so you _are_ the President, but if you don't stop and pay attention to just how fucking mad I am at both of us for the shit you're dragging my people through, then you won't stay on top for very long."

"_If you seriously believe that I'm going to let a disturbed young man like you tell me how to run this nation then Mister Jones I-"_

"I **am** the nation you ignorant son of a bitch!" He yelled, and when he felt that patriotic burn in his gut he let it crawl up his throat like bile before vomit: "And you lied to me! I can feel my factories closing! I can feel private fingers digging into public funds and I can hear the banks collecting keys from the children they're throwing out on the streets! Don't lie to me and pretend you know how to manage my resources or have any hope of keeping me from plunging over that fiscal cliff: you're fucking _betting_ on it!"

"_Mister Jones-!"_

"I am the United States of America and I am one-hundred percent of this nation! You are accountable to _me_ before anyone else! Not your campaign organizers, not your business partners, not your bottom line, _me!_ And if you continue to fight with and ignore me, Mister President, then not even god himself will save you from me!"

"_Is that a threat to my __**personal-?**__"_

"_You fucking bet it is!"_ America had wept digging Lincoln's grave, sat for days at Garfield's bedside, stayed close to McKinley's Vice-President, and held the hand of Kennedy's widow. America had mourned four times but he knew that if it happened again then this time it would be different.

"_Agent Stevenson I believe that under the Patriot Act-" _That son of a bitch! _"-this confession is more than enough to hold Mister Jones in custody somewhere appropriate, both for his own safety as much as the continued progress of this nation as we move into a new future."_

"Don't dismiss me, Mister President."

"_You need help, Mister Jones." _Oh yes, that he clearly did_. __"I hope you have the insurance to cover it._" Filthy rat…

"Tell your wife she won't make half the widow Jackie did."

* * *

_One week later…_

* * *

A red-lacquered house with a wide koi pond brimming with life. A toddling young nation who barely understood how he'd come so far from home, and his grandfather who sang to the orange bodies swimming beneath the clear surface.

Ancient sunlight shining over tangled bronze hair, a colour he'd passed on to his Hispanic line, while the shoulders and breadth had gone to his Romantic successor. His voice had remained in Italy, that sing-song jabber that hadn't rung in China's ears for too many centuries. It didn't matter that both brothers could carry the hymns that had laid Rome to rest, only one of them had the stern glare and slow-burning temper of that great empire.

At least, that was what China had told himself for a long time now. Romano was the true successor of his namesake: he's been the one to survive, hadn't he? He'd outlived the one who'd succumbed to fate and anguish, and he was too strong at heart to let the pains in his political flesh bring him down. He was going to survive what China was about to bring down on him, because Italy hadn't yet found a son or grandchild to protect and stake his life on. He wasn't dying, he wasn't weakening and getting ready to bow out of this world.

He would be China's, and Rome's ghost would hate him for it, but there simply wasn't any way to change his mind. Italy was so frustrated with his state of affairs at this point that if he didn't get the money he needed to fix his flawed system he would tear down the government with smoke and gunfire. China would prevent those scars, he hadn't quite liked them on Rome and his own were troublesome to think about. He would keep Italy safe, but there would be no reason not to benefit from the arrangement while he helped him.

That was how China chose to enter this meeting a week after Romano first contacted him. He came walking on the painful earth of Rome's remains and breathing in the fresh life of his grandson's achievements, all for the purpose of snatching one more piece from his opponents' hands. China had avoided any kind of communication with Germany all week _just_ so he would have the supreme satisfaction of claiming Italy for his own.

Security was heavier in Rome than it had been in a long time, and China and his handful of associates were swept through door after door and down winding stone corridors to find their meeting rooms and counter-parts. The People's Republic of China found himself in a small, sun-lit chamber looking out on a hidden garden, sunlight pouring in through the high windows and sparkling across the dark stain on the table. He was able to choose his seat with care and place himself firmly in the light, the sun on his back, and waited patiently for the younger nation to arrive and sign away his autonomy.

Everything really had come together in China's favour. America was on his knees while his allies scattered, Russia took orders from Beijing and was keeping all of his subject states in line. Europe was too preoccupied with economic troubles and personal affairs to notice him, and now that they'd cast off one of their own, China was here to scoop Italy up into his arms and establish himself properly on the continent that had caused him so much grief in the previous century. It was wonderful to realize that while everyone else had spent their time since Bern wallowing and weeping in despair, China was the nation who had actually lifted his head and found the path to new political and economic domination.

The world was too big to be ruled all at once, but Russia, Canada and Italy were not. All China needed was for the last of Japan's confidence in America to dry up before his younger brother would fall under his sway as well, or go down trying to fight him in a war he would never be able to wage again. Everything was turning up in his favour, so as warm as Rome's sunlight was across his shoulders, China's confidence could not be broken.

So it was the strangest thing when those tall doors opened and China suddenly couldn't remember what he'd just been thinking about. Why had he felt so smug? He couldn't stand up, not that he'd meant to originally, but that had been a choice: a decision made to ensure the balance of power continued to swing and lilt in his direction.

Now he was robbed of choice and feeling. China was staring into the wrong set of low-brow eyes over a slightly crooked nose, scarred lips driven into a deep line between angular cheeks. This person's hair had finished transforming from its muted auburn to a violent blood red, the slightly curly strands caught by a tie behind his neck before the black and blue of a chillingly familiar uniform robed him from the chin down. China's eyes barely registered the gold buttons and pins on Italy's uniform, he was trapped staring at a ghost and it upset him.

It upset him to be this upset. The Middle Kingdom was finished with having the fates knock him down at his moment of greatness. His mind made the connection smooth and easily: North Italy was alive, the cultural and economic divisions between North and South had preserved his life in the face of so much unnatural trauma. It shouldn't have been so surprising.

"Sign this." But it was. It was surprising, and it was uncomfortable, and it made it very hard for the most powerful nation still on earth to breathe. He watched gloved hands- and since when did Italy wear gloves with his uniform? But his hands pulled a sealed dossier out from under his arm, breaking the seal before sliding it across the stained table until it was in front of China.

No handshakes, no smiling, no pleasantries or discussion. The People's Republic of China pulled the documents out of the folder with clumsy wooden hands, moving slowly so he could hide the cumbersome way his fingers were operating. He did not take his eyes off the nation standing in front of him, because between the blue uniform and the way his face refused to flinch or change China was compelled to do whatever Rome's other heir demanded. He reached for the pen resting in his own breast pocket and twisted the smooth lid off the fine enamelled piece, looking down with hazy eyes to find the lines marked for his signature.

"Our experiences taught me something." China was pleased with himself for maintaining the presence of mind to speak, smiling to himself when good sense prevailed and his eyes did deviate up to read what few numbers were available for his mind to register. "That creature taught me not to fear my own memories."

"Sign."

"I made a pledge to myself after Rome died." He touched the pen nub to the first line, scrawling his name in careful characters instead of his western signature. Considering the number of pages in front of him, it was only the first place of many he would have to sign. "I felt the only way to stop the pain was to stop the memories, to cease looking into the past for the comforts I had lost. But I didn't stop with Rome."

The Italy brothers were not being _completely_ unreasonable with their demands, at least that was what China thought until he reached the fifth and sixth pages of the agreement. Ah, weapons? This had not been discussed by any of their human masters, but they wanted military friendship to go along with the economic boon China was willing to give them. Did they really think he would hand over so much aid for dramatically less in return than what he and Romano had already discussed?

But he did sign it, because he was impressed by this debilitating play. How had the EU ever denied them when North Italy was waiting in the wings for South to spring on them?

"I've lost many friends over the millennia." He continued, letting the black ink flow as he spoke. "I killed some of them, betrayed many and was betrayed in turn. Brothers, sisters, parents, children… I'm very old you know, very, very old." So sometimes it was easier to just forget about those faces and names, to put them out of his mind for a few hundred years after they breathed their last. China preferred to remember his own achievements and ways of doing things, hear his own stories, play his own songs, appropriate what he liked and reject and destroy what he did not. When you had lived as long and successfully as China you did not need to cater to other, smaller powers on such a personal level. But… "The mansion changed that."

"This isn't about that."

"Yes it is." He looked up with the pen poised over the eighteenth page where he'd just marked his signature again: he'd just agreed to a freeze on interest that would benefit Italy's fractured markets. "You became one of them to me, otherwise I would not be doing this. You hid from me like I've hidden them, but now you're going to listen."

China flipped straight to the last page of the document, the final portion of the contract that would validate everything else he had already signed, and without it these were worthless papers that his bosses would tear apart and reject in outrage. He held it up so North Italy could see it, watching something glint in the back of the Italian's dark eyes as he held his peace and did what China said: he listened.

"I will sign this." Although he had every right and reason to reject it, and he was completely capable of throwing Italy against the wall and forcing the conditions _China_ wanted onto this agreement. But he would sign it. "But first I am going to have what I came here for. I thought you were dead and I was going to fight your brother over everything I have just agreed to here with you, but there is one thing I want, and I am going to have it or I will return to Beijing with my assets intact and your house on the brink of ruin and revolution. Do you understand?"

North Italy stood there in his uniform with the sunlight still glittering across the dark grain of the table. The blue outfit was hauntingly familiar and not just because of the military tradition it carried, but the way it evoked memories of bloodshed and white walls. He hadn't cracked a single smile, not even one to mislead or hide whatever he was feeling inside. He wasn't blank, but reading him was not the fun, active game of disarming comments and half-witted behaviour it had once been. The white scars around his mouth looked like they'd begun to fade when China compared them to memories of his long sleep in Venice, but his hair was garishly red and long enough to be held back with that tie behind his head.

The younger nation moved his hands from hanging at his sides to clasp them behind his back, shifting his weight until his booted feet were spread and planted firmly on the tile floor. China recognized the body-language immediately, not because it was characteristic of Italy, but precisely because it was not.

The strong stance and the slight nod of his head, nevermind the way his eyes flashed with something too fast and brief for China to catch. It was the look of a nation waiting for a command, someone who wasn't quite ready to surrender, but who still understood that he had been beaten.

It was a thrilling message to receive, because it banished those numbing, dumb-struck feelings from before. Seeing North Italy submit without bowing and await orders without acknowledging him meant exactly what China had already told himself.

He'd won.

"Bring me your brother."

* * *

What was the point of taking a really long time to explain something that was really very simple?

But was that any better than very quickly running through an issue that was very complicated?

That, in a nutshell, was America's dilemma, because the young man sitting in a Pennsylvania prison cell a week after he'd last spoken to the President of the United States didn't even know whether to be blunt or just let himself really delve into the details of his situation. What had brought him here, and what was going to happen because of it?

All Alfred F. Jones Could really say for sure, much like his handlers keeping watch through that slat in the steel door, was that the young man on the prison cot had started running a fever back on Wednesday, and hadn't moved from his spot here since last night.

The air in his tiny cell felt like ice water running over his skin now, flooding his lungs and turning his hands numb. But the fever wasn't going to break with only bed-rest and chicken soup. This, despite how unfair it all seemed, was no ordinary fever.

"Alfred?" It had taken the man with the New England accent and nice green eyes five days to come into things. It was hard to keep track of his name, but the blonde kid in the cell was pretty sure he had it now.

"'s that you, Phil?" He couldn't even really open his mouth all the way to speak anymore. He didn't want his teeth to chatter so much and tried to just keep them clenched. It hurt to keep his face frozen like this, but it was more annoying to have his molars grind and knock until they cracked.

"That's right, Al." I'm back." Phil, short for Philip, a French name, he was a nice guy though. "I need you to talk to me for a bit, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Mr. Westwood." Westwood, an English name.

"Have you eaten anything today? Are they feeding you, Alfred?" Three squares a day, but when he tried to say it he felt the fever send a spasm through his lungs- no go. "You gotta eat, Al. I'm trying to get clearance for a doctor to come in and help but you've gotta be in my side, okay?" That meant answer all the questions with all the right answers, say yes sir and no sir and be a good, obedient little blonde boy.

'_But who's on__** my**__ side?'_ he thought, because again, he didn't think he could say it.

"Are you on my side, Al?"

"I'm on mine." If he could only figure out what that was supposed to mean. What was the United States of America, and who was Alfred F. Jones?

"Let's start with something else: where'd you grow up?" What? "Talk to me, Al. Where'd you grow up?"

"East coast…" New England, Delaware. "Moved west from there."

Delaware- who'd called him that? Who'd found him first?

"Your passport didn't have a lot of information in it, do you know why?" Of course he knew why, but he wasn't sure how to word it properly. "When we scanned it, all that came up was a list of the world's nations, the entire roster, but it left out a few and included others that aren't formally recognized."

"Cuba…" He grunted, thinking of all the names that would have been on that list, and what they were meant to tell the computer systems that scanned it. "Cuba's a dick…" So Cuba's name was omitted, because the United States had ceased all diplomatic ties and personal communication with that southern nation decades ago…

"I really want to get a doctor in here for you, Al, but I need more information. Mother's maiden name, family history, anything at all. Even the prescription on your glasses is something."

"Doc won't fix me…" America knew what the problem was, Alfred just knew he felt sick.

"Al, just hang-"

"-hate that name." Phil stopped talking. Interrupting a man was rude but Phil was a good guy: he didn't even seem upset about it.

"What name, Al?"

"That one." He thought about it for a moment after he said it, and then he realized he hated a lot more than just the name. He looked down at his sweat-stained self and swore: "Why the fuck am I blonde?"

"Alfred?"

"Pull up the last census- I shouldn't be blonde. Alfred's blonde but I-"

"Alfred?" Phil's voice got a bit louder and it made him stop talking. He didn't wanna make a good guy like Philip Westwood mad at him. "Alfred F. Jones, is that who I'm speaking to?"

"I hate that name." It was his first response and he went with it. He went with his gut. "You don't know what that name _means_ to me. You don't know how much I hate it."

"Alfred, I want you to stay calm for me, okay?" Stop talking to him like a child. He was older than these walls by God, he was older than the city they were trapped in. "I think that fever's starting to get the best of you."

"Damn straight it is." Phil was a good guy, but that was the first smart thing he'd said all night. "Everything's been getting the best of me lately; don't act like I don't know it."

"Al-"

"I hate that _name!"_ He shouted, he screamed it, and he hated it when the sound hit the walls and slammed back into him. His skull was throbbing from protests and rallies, his throat was aching and raw while his skin burned from the rubber bullets and tear gas sent to suppress them. "I hate that name and I hate this face! I hate how this body was chosen for me!"

"Alfred calm down! You're gonna be alright, just-"

"_I am not a child!_" He bellowed and the hot pain running down his calves roared up into his stomach where the acid of financial collapse was poisoning him.

"I am not a child!" America roared, "I am the single most powerful nation on earth! I have raised dictators, toppled empires, bought my enemies and sold my best friends!" Oh god, he could feel it: that heat. He could feel it warring with the sick cold wrapped around his shoulders like a frigid blanket. Where had that oil spill come from? Why was he just noticing it now? Nevermind the gulf, he could feel the sludge clogging up his lungs until he swore he belched black gold. "But God chose a _child_ to represent me!" And it hurt: it was all just an overwhelming flood of _hurt._

"Alfred-"

"America-_!_" The sound hit the walls and hit him again, like a clap over both ears that sent his insides ringing. There was no answer as the silence set in after it, silence broken when he pulled his chapped lips open, breathed cold air down into inflamed lungs, and screamed his name again:

"_AMERICA!" _He screamed it again because it hadn't rung loud enough the first time, hadn't travelled far enough. And then with gasping breaths he followed screaming with something more: "First of the modern republics…" Because he was. "The great successor of the British Empire-" Because of all the former colonies, he _was_ the greatest. "Third largest in size, and Europe's equal in power! I am the United States of America, and I will not be caged like a beast or misrepresented by some piss-poor miserable white _child!_"

America felt it and knew it and couldn't be stopped. The Western World's hero, the hegemonic power that had triumphed in two world wars and made the earth quake with the ring of gunfire and the changing of the guard. America's time at the top would end one day just as it had for Rome and England and China in the past, the way the Ottomans had disintegrated and Austria had collapsed under Persia's ancient sky. America would fall one day, but Alfred F. Jones would not be the reason why.

What were you supposed to get when you put history's most effective and world-dominating hyper-power and put that essence inside a human body?

You made it masculine because God had decided it should be so at the start. It had blonde hair and blue eyes because a Nation's image to the rest of the world meant as much as the reality of any census count or decades of immigration. It was given a youthful face because it was young, and came with energy as boundless as the Montana sky. It kept living and refused to die because it was the Spirit of Industry and the dream of freedom that would never truly die now that it had lived and breathed and run wild in the hearts of men and women of all walks.

But then, after all of that…

After revolution and expansion and isolation and war and growth and domination…

After everything that had happened, what did it mean when you took that young, energetic, idealistic nation-spirit… and made it die?

Forced it to die?

Gave it not choice except to die?

Over four-hundred years of history, and the potential of over three-hundred-_million_ human beings, condensed and brutalized down into one single spoilt child with a gun and a shitty temper. When the United States of America became just Alfred F. Jones, a boy who couldn't even make himself useful in the face of so much _repeated_ suffering and death, what was supposed to happen? When in loop after torturous and unnatural loop, that child with no past and no future and no bloodline and no identity was more at fault than ever free from blame, so what were the consequences?

Freedom trapped between cold white walls. Valour bleeding under florescent lights. Dignity abandoned to screaming fits and madness. A great nation brought down to a boy who couldn't even focus on what was happening to him. A boy- a _child_, who was more upset by the strange and excited feelings aroused by a best friend who had once been a brother: Alfred F. Jones was the _brat_ who hadn't been able to think past biology that _didn't even apply to him_ in order to help himself and everyone else escape. The self-proclaimed _hero_ had been more than a liability: he'd been a fucking _catalyst_ for death.

"…_Alfred?_"

So how was the United States of America supposed to handle all of that?

"Alfred… can you hear me?"

How was the United States of America supposed to treat Alfred F. Jones?

"_Alfred._"

When all the black magic had left God's Avatar of the State because all the clocks had been smashed and all the scars had healed, when the body belonged to a deity who couldn't die and who could feel and sense and embody what it was meant to _embody_ once again. When Alfred F. Jones reverted back to just a code name, not a real name, but it was still a real face and a real voice and the same hands that had shaken and misfired too many times to count. When all of that happened and the State became the State again, no longer the boy, the child, the _brat_ from that haunted place, what happened then?

"_I…_" When it wasn't Alfred F. Jones speaking through the brat's mouth anymore, and it wasn't Alfred F. Jones dealing with his government anymore, and it wasn't fucking _fair_ for America to put up with this kind of _shit_ on top of everything else already turning against the American people!

When the United States of America had to wake up every morning to _Alfred Fucking Jones_ staring back in the mirror: young, jobless, emotional, pathetic, what the _fuck_ was the State supposed to do?

"_I hate-_" What was the single-most powerful nation on earth supposed to do when it realized that God had given it an Avatar too weak and simple-minded to keep his brothers from drowning in blood, too cowardly to protect the man who'd given everything trying to get them out, and too petulant to follow orders and keep everyone safe when it fucking _mattered?_ "_I __**hate**__-"_

"Alfred please-"

Then the State had to react.

"_I HATE __**HIM!**__"_

"Open this door, open it right now, let me in-"

And it had to react in a big way.

"_I HATE THEM __**BOTH**__-!"_ he felt the heat come out of his mouth and burn his throat, he felt it knock the humans senseless on the other side of the door as he dropped his sweating face between his knees on the cot, screaming at the concrete and feeling the cell shake from its foundations up to that too-far-away window above his head. "_I WANT THEM __**DEAD!**__ TAKE THIS FACE FROM ME, GOD, I WON'T HAVE IT ANYMORE!"_

Because the United States of America could accept that one day it would collapse and fall.

"_I HATE HIM!"_

But on the lives of the American People, it would not collapse to protect Alfred F. Jones.

* * *

"Please don't go alone."

"I'll be fine, just take it easy tonight."

"_Romano."_ He didn't like it, Veneziano didn't like it at all and he wasn't going to suddenly start liking it as he followed his brother around the house. "What about everything you said about not trusting China?"

"I'm not trusting him, Veneziano, I just don't know why you're convinced he's going to try and hurt me or something." Romano was doing up his tie still when he stopped and turned around after walking out into the hall on their second floor, looking up at him with the silk folds still tangled around his fingers.

"You didn't see him when he asked for you." The younger one pressed. "It wasn't a face I've seen him make before." It was the look a powerful empire wore when they felt like they were entitled to something, something they would prefer to have handed over, but would just take and rip apart if denied. Romano sighed but just didn't take it seriously as he looked back at the mirror on the wall.

"What was his threat if I don't show up tonight? He won't sign? Well then what the hell are we doing all of this for?" Please don't take this so lightly… "He probably just wants to shout at me or some shit for not telling him about you." Well maybe that was exactly what Veneziano was worried about, and he scowled at his brother while Romano finished off the knot and straightened it around his throat. He was dressed for work, but with the added flare of his better wrist-watch and a nicer black jacket instead of something more casual: they were putting themselves under China's control and Romano knew to dress the part.

"Calm down," Romano repeated, setting his hands on Veneziano's shoulders and making him feel like he was acting like a child for putting up this much of a fight. It wasn't fair for Romano to look so worried and use that to keep him quiet. But his green eyes were sincere, almost pleading, and the younger brother really hated how effective they were on him. "I have my phone with me and I'll probably be there until pretty late tonight: so promise me you'll get some sleep."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

"I said I-"

"Just trust me." Not _fair._ Veneziano took a deep breath and held it tight, giving his brother the best glare he could manage as Romano hit him with a look that said he was being unreasonable, and he hated that too. "Trust me: order something to eat and make sure you get some sleep tonight so at least one of us is functioning tomorrow." Romano meant it as a joke and Veneziano seriously considered grabbing the back of his shirt and dragging him back up the stairs as they both quickly stomped down them.

"At least take the Captain with-"

"We sent him off to find himself, remember?" God _damn_ it he'd forgotten again. That wasn't even the first time this week that Veneziano had almost suggested that human Captain- that human Major, who had been so useful to him. Maybe instead of dragging Romano up the stairs he'd just stomp on his foot so he couldn't walk, anything had to be better than watching his brother drag a black coat out of the closet and swing around his shoulders to keep him warm for the short walk down to the taxi.

"Veneziano, it's okay."

"It is _not_ okay." But he let Romano hug him, okay when the embrace didn't linger because that taxi was waiting and Veneziano was still mad at him for taking this so easily. Romano had hurt every step of the way into China's good graces, but a private meeting that could turn sour at any moment wasn't even giving him a moment's pause. "Please be careful."

"I will, I promise, okay?" He got a quick kiss on the cheek and one brief moment where Romano stopped and actually looked at him, really, really searched his face to see if Veneziano meant what he was saying or not. But he did, and it showed, because Romano slowed down properly and stopped trying to brush it off, sighing under his breath before pulling out his cell-phone and making sure Veneziano could see it with its full-battery icon in the corner of the screen.

"I will call if I need you. And if I just call and hang-up then you'll know something's wrong, but if I don't call then I'm fine. _Don't_ stay up, Feliciano: just put the damn volume on max and leave it by your pillow."

"Romano I'm not a child."

"Then prove it by being asleep by the time I get home, understand?" Yes he understood but no he wasn't going to-

"Fine."

"Promise?"

"_Fine._" He would go to bed but North Italy was _not_ going to fall asleep while South Italy was off being tormented by China. "Now if you're so keen on going then go, you shouldn't be late."

"I won't. But I'll see you tomorrow alright? Bright and early." Romano leaned in to kiss his cheek again and this time Veneziano was willing to return a quick peck on his brother's cheek. He snagged Romano's hand just as he started to turn away and squeezed it tight, not letting go until he felt his other half pause again and do the same.

"Bright and early."

* * *

"Sir?" This was all more troubling than he could say, but what was the Secretary of the State supposed to do when he'd been sent to a federal prison outside Harrisburg Pennsylvania where a delusional young journeyman had just flung himself over the deep-end? "Secretary Westwood, sir, we have a situation."

"Another one?" Phil breathed, looking up from where he'd dropped himself behind the desk kindly provided for him by the prison's administration. Everything in this place was grey concrete and painted steel bars, but he just opened his eyes and sat up properly, tired feet scuffing the floor so he could stand and see the federal agent lingering in the doorway. Somewhere down the hall, he could still hear Alfred bellowing like an animal in his cell- they were trying to restrain him, but he was strong…

"VP's on a secure line waiting to speak to you." The Vice President?

"Do you know what he wants?" Just asking the question brought two more agents into the room, and when he noticed them taking up positions in the corners so they couldn't be seen from the doors, he felt his nerves start to fray. "What's going on, aren't he and the President over in Wyoming?"

The agent in front of him, a tall, hulking man with smooth black skin and a bald ring around his head, was licking his lips slowly and cradling a boxy-looking cellphone between his hands. It had a satellite antenna sticking out the top so it could still grab a signal behind steel and concrete, but it also meant the call was coming from somewhere far away. The agent stepped inside and closed the steel office door behind him, standing there with his back turned for a few moments while Phil Westwood, government bureaucrat and assistant to the Secretary of the State, told himself to breathe deeply and remain calm. When the agent finally faced him and held the phone out, his face was grim.

"Sir, the President of the United States has been shot." He stopped listening. "Your safety is my team's top priority, sir, but our country needs you in Washington immediately, a plane is being secured as we speak."

Philip Westwood, thirty-eight, Harvard graduate and one of the youngest members of the 45th American President's administration, didn't really hear the last part of what the agent said.

He just heard the silence that meant that Alfred had stopped screaming in his cell. And he just felt the world outside reinforced concrete walls crumble and break beyond his control. He took the phone from the agent in charge of protecting him, but before he brought it up to his ear the young man looked up one more time and said something he couldn't explain:

"Prep Mister Jones for transport. Wherever I go, he goes." The agent's eyes widened and he shook his head immediately, chin pulled back like he was tsking a child.

"Not possible, and I don't think you understand the situation if you're seriously suggesting we try."

"It's not a suggestion." Phil didn't even lift the phone to his ear, he was struck instead by the fact that he needed this request carried out, and nothing was going to sway him. "He knows what's going on, he's connected to it and I'm not-"

"A sick and delusional young man like that is nothing but a security risk and has nothing to do with-"

"Do you even know what my job _is_ with the government?" Phil countered, interrupting and running right over the agent's argument. He felt himself getting hot under the collar, not used to pushing around people or stepping on their administrative toes. "I was brought in to _replace_ Jones, and I've done a shit job of it. You showed me a copy of the conversation he had with the President, and I don't know what everyone else heard in it but I heard him threaten the President's life, and now you're telling me a week later that he's been shot out of the blue in a state he won with a clear margin? Either he comes with me to Washington or I don't go."

"Mister Westwood-" Saying no made sense, it made perfect sense: here the wild man Alfred Jones could be kept under surveillance and they'd work the paperwork out eventually and get him into a hospital where he needed to be. But how long would that really take?

"Agent this is not up for debate." How many months would that take? How many years would Alfred Jones spend locked up in a cell or a camp until they could figure out why his cell-phone was full of countries, and their numbers were untraceable and untapped? All he knew was that he wasn't willing to let that bizarre young man fall through the cracks in the bureaucracy. He wasn't going to let Alfred Jones wind up in a 21st Century Alcatraz.

"After this call I want his cell-phone brought back in here."

"You don't have the clearance for that kind of demand."

"Yes I do." He still had the phone with the VP waiting in his hand, telling himself his palms weren't sweating as he reached inside the inner pocket of his blazer and pulled out the security badge that had granted him access to every world meeting and summit since he'd received his new appointment. The nation's crest was blazoned across the multi-layered pass. It wasn't a simple punch-out plastic card, but something he knew was ribbed with micro-chips and more security features than a bank-vault. "I want his phone, I want in on the rhetoric, and I want him walking out of here with me or you'll have to drag me back to D.C., understood?"

They'd met all of three days ago, but Westwood already knew that the man he was speaking to wasn't going to put up much more of a fight about this. He wasn't an ankle-biter, he was an agent who knew his job and where his orders came from. If his orders were to keep Philip Westwood safe and transport him back to the capital as soon as possible, then it was in everyone's best interests for the man to just go along with his crazy demands and honour the badge that said yes, Westwood _did_ have the clearance and the authority to demand Jones' release.

"Just take the damn call, will you? My men are not leaving this room without you." So with a huff and a harsh rebuttal, that was exactly what the CIA agent standing in the doorway did, and the man behind the desk finally picked up the call from his nation's Acting-President.

"Westwood. Please tell me this is all a mistake." It was barely past three in the afternoon, but even without the troubling news and stressful voices waiting for him, today was just getting started…

* * *

**Wow I can't write America he is such a little fucker. And jeeze Phil for all the drafting we did together you still read like a wet napkin wow just go be not in my story you suck.**

**I get to write Action and Romano next chapter though, so here's to another update before Christmas, and if I miss it: happy holidays! Leave a review below and I'll see you in a few weeks!**


	37. Sweet Plum Wine

**Dr. Crab's Prize, Saladin, She Floats, Sorrow, A Thousand Years.**

**I'm not-quite-back, but here's an update! I'm posting this from Japan where I will be for at least the next twelve months, and since I have a regular working schedule, that means I have a regular writing schedule!**

**I've been waiting for this chaaaaapterrrr yes I have. And I think because I was anticipating it so hard I stumbled more than anything? I also went a month without writing more than a few words anywhere due to packing, moving, training and working, but mostly I think it was the "omgomgomg FINALLY" jitters.**

**Gomen gomen.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Sweet Plum Wine

Nations were good hosts, they had to be. Except in times of war even enemies had to be treated with dignity and respect, or at least given accommodations that reflected that kind of intention.

The People's Republic of China was quite pleased with the suite he'd been given in Rome. Gold fixtures, a crystal chandelier, more space than a single person rightfully needed for a few nights' stay in a foreign city… He'd already dined on five star Italian cuisine downstairs with his human party, and enjoyed the luxurious European soaps that were fun to dabble with every now and then when he was abroad. It wasn't home, but it was lavish and spoke very highly of his host.

Or should he say hosts: he'd need to have a talk with Italy about keeping secrets like that in the future. He wouldn't want anything to threaten their budding relationship, would he?

There would be two sides to tonight: what China expected, and what Yao wanted. He was comfortable with the duality now, more so than he had been months earlier in Switzerland. Maybe the State and the Man living in one solid body had always existed, but what was more important was the fact that neither side was in conflict. China would get what China wanted, and if Yao didn't then that would only be a disappointment- or merely a delay, and wouldn't interfere with the path forward.

Sending North Italy to speak to him had been a foul move on Italy's part, but China wasn't upset about it anymore. Instead, after a long day, a good meal, and a comforting bath, he reclined back on the fine leather couch provided for him across from the large television mounted on the marble wall and relaxed. The screen was off, and instead a tiny hot-plate was set up on the glass table in the middle of the sitting area. On top of the electric disk was a small white ceramic bottle, its contents slowly mulling away over the low heat while two small cups were resting, empty and waiting, on a square serving dish.

He was dressed down compared to the western suit and tie he'd worn to that upsetting meeting with North Italy: a black silk top with gold toggles down the front was loose on his skin but comfortable, simple grey cotton pants providing equal comfort. All he needed now was the host nation to arrive so they could take care of a few important details.

If Italy didn't come as instructed, those details would change from points of discussion into strict demands. China wasn't going to play games with someone he'd already won.

Just like he'd already won Canada. China's legal battles with the American administration had not gone unnoticed by the other North American states. Mexico and Canada had been meeting regularly in America's political absence to sort out issues on their continent, and with the northerner's "special" relationship with Russia, China had signed deal after deal with him to gain the kind of economic power he now held over the younger state.

And Canada knew he'd done more than just attend functions and galas: the pressure China was putting on America's manufacturing sectors was almost entirely the result of him simply forbidding Canada from renewing or increasing deals and contracts with his neighbour. Most of the restrictions were ones Canada had agreed to thanks to spurned pride and the opportunity for unprecedented growth in his own industries, but now other nations were paying attention: Germany had been _furious_ at the last meeting_…_

Eight o'clock, where was Italy? China drummed his fingers over his knee once and considered standing up to find his cellphone, but as soon as he decided to do it a low chime bounced against the softly lit walls. A doorbell in a hotel wasn't exactly common, but it was certainly more enjoyable than an irritating phone call from the front desk.

So he did stand up, but instead of going to find his phone China simply slid around the side of the couch, curious to see if Italy would just walk in or wait for him to open the door. In the end it was the latter, which was almost disappointing until China remembered that he was still getting his way in the end.

"You're late." And that kind of satisfaction couldn't stay out of his voice, or his smile when he saw Italy standing there in a long black coat, his hands tucked into the wool pockets and a fashionable black hat resting on his dark hair. His shirt collar was visible, as was the tie he had looped around his throat, but China was more interested in the way he kept his shoulders straight, barely fussing with himself as he frowned a little with thin lips and gave a soft huff in the back of his throat.

"You didn't give me a set time, you just said tonight."

"Is that an excuse?" Italy took a small step forward, but when China didn't move he stopped short. He wrinkled his narrow forehead with a scowl that lined his cheeks and darkened his green eyes, but he answered the question without demanding entry.

"Did Veneziano make a mistake?" He could have jumped on that statement, but that would have been tactless- much better to discuss North Italy inside, not out here. "I was told tonight, not for dinner, now is this really what you want to talk about or should I turn around and leave so you can get on with your evening?"

"You're much better at handling deflections now." China gave the compliment and he watched the way the lines around Italy's mouth deepened and twisted in confusion. He felt his own smile growing a little wider and then took a small step back around behind the door, clearing the way for his host. "Please come inside, we have much to take care of."

It took Italy a moment before he accepted the invitation, a clear sign that he knew he was walking into an environment that could turn on him at any moment if he miscalculated. His hat and coat were handed over and put away with only subtle nods and China's unyielding smile, then it was back into the main body of the suite where the table and bottle were waiting. As soon as Italy saw the hot-plate and cups, he stopped again and this time the lines down his dark face were written with confusion, the creases around his eyes folding tightly as his attention shifted back and forth between China and the dishware.

"I thought you wanted an explanation for today, is that wine?" China simply moved ahead and took a seat on the white leather, gesturing with one hand for Italy to join him on the firm cushion.

"I do want an explanation," he answered simply, his hands delicately flipping both cups with a gentle chime before reaching for the heated bottle. The contents weren't hot because that would simply burn away the alcohol, but they were warm enough to enhance the flavour and aroma of the eastern spirit. "But first, a toast to our new friendship."

By European standards, the serving was small, but China knew as he lifted both cups with their golden contents, it was a generous amount for both. Italy accepted his with caution, lifting it up to catch the aroma and then gave him a curious look.

"It doesn't smell like rice wine." Because it wasn't, but China didn't answer yet, he waited for Italy to taste it first. That he swallowed too much by accident was clear by the way his green eyes widened briefly, a ribbon of tension tightening around his shoulders before he made himself relax and lowered the now half-empty cup with a disguised cough.

"Any guesses?" China purred, amused by the lengths Italy went to so he could hide the faux pas. He stretched out one leg across the floor before tucking his foot back in, licking his lips where the sweet must have clung to them.

"Some kind of fruit," his voice was raspy, but only for a moment as he swallowed again and then grunted heavily to clear his throat. He was looking down at the nectar swirling in his hand. "Peach?"

"Plum actually. Do you find it too sweet?"

"It's different." Which was polite Westerner for _'it's too sweet'_, but that didn't stop Italy from tasting it again with more caution this time. "But if you're willing to serve me wine then I guess you can't be too mad about this afternoon."

"Mm… I wouldn't go that far."

China let his words hang in the air, and Italy didn't shoot them down or try to tug on them to find whatever double meaning was hiding there. Was he mad? No, Italy was right to say he wasn't mad. But he'd still been upset.

Italy took another drink and this time it emptied the tiny cup, but China was there to refill it without comment.

"To be honest, I think we were both surprised you didn't already know." And then Italy's narrow lips took another sip, muffling his gentle words. He was too busy staring off at some corner of the room to look at China, probably gazing out the window of the apartment that looked out across the city lights. Such a guilty tell…

"Why is that?" There was no need for China to speak very much; Italy knew where he stood in this tedious balance. Watching him lose himself again in the alcohol he'd already decided was too sweet just resonated with memories of another nation and his taste for pungent wine.

"Last week he was forced to meet with Germany." And suddenly a thousand unanswered calls from the west made sense. "Frankly, I'd expected England and France to go along with him, hell I expected to be there myself, but in the end it was just the two of them."

Another drink, another pour.

"You make it sound like a bad thing, what happened?" North Italy was alive; that would have upset Germany terribly and it made the EU's rejection almost make more sense. Almost. Would Germany really hurt the one he'd loved just to spite the brother who'd hidden him? That didn't seem like him. It felt more like revenge that had backfired. "Aside from the EU refusing to aid you: that's been announced, in detail, absolutely everywhere. Even people inside my firewall know about it."

And they knew about the phrases and details Germany, on behalf of the EU, had written about the Italian Republic. The whole thing stank of a beurocratic leak: how had a twelve-hundred page financial document wound up in the hands of the media?

China had time to ponder the when and how of the leak because Italy wasn't speaking. He'd sipped from his wine again but now only sat there, elbows on his knees, looking down at nothing and mulling over his own thoughts. China was half-way to asking his question again when the other nation found his voice.

"The mansion…" unfortunately, it wasn't quite what China wanted to hear. He understood Italy's hesitation now. "It did things to my brother, China. Things he still hasn't recovered from, things he is going to need a very long time to let go of and move away from."

The sweetness of the wine clearly wasn't bothering him anymore, because with another swallow China was ready to refill the small cup again, taking a sip of his own wine as Italy paused for a breath. It was not a comfortable silence, but it wasn't hostile either, just tired. The fact that Italy began to willingly give him answers was either a result of the stress, the wine, or his simple inability to give a damn anymore.

"Germany doesn't trust me to take care of him." So long as Italy didn't lie or keep secrets from him, China didn't really care what the real reason was. "But Veneziano doesn't trust anyone who isn't me, and to be honest I'm in the same position."

Something in his voice changed. Something in his face changed. Something of Rome came through in Italy Romano's face as he looked up boldly this time, his eyes locking with China's and refusing to let go. It was like being a thousand years in the past, or maybe two thousand, he couldn't quite remember. He barely heard what Italy had to say because in that moment he sounded _just like Rome._

"I don't fucking trust you." Except Rome had rarely sworn, but that was such a small detail. "But we both need your help, so help us. You know our government won't last more than another year and that I have a candidate to replace them, but I need you to put him in power or those criminals in my system will get there first. I need money so I can rebuild my brother, and they're common-sense things that need investing in: road ways, dams, bridges, factories, harbors. Everything the mansion and that earthquake destroyed I need help rebuilding."

"Say that first part again." China caught himself leaning forward, but Italy was too busy swallowing the wine in his little cup to notice. His cheeks were flushed already and China almost spilled the bottle when he reached for it without looking.

"Which part?" Rome's voice had been fuller, much louder: Italy's was much drier but no less melodic. Up and down with the refrains of his language, that song that sounded more like Latin than Spanish or Romanian or French would ever be.

"The very first one: about trust."

"I don't trust you…?" He said it softly because he was confused, but when China felt himself grinning again then he understood. Thick black brows came down in sweeping lines over eyes like stained glass, thin lips twisting as the aged lines around his mouth and eyes dug deeper and then relaxed. "I don't _trust_ you."

"Very good." Why did that make him so happy? Why didn't those words hurt him and make him take a step back? Because they were wise words, words spoken by a nation that knew trust would lead to pain and humiliation. China _wanted_ someone who understood how empires and power really worked.

They were whispering now and China barely heard the change happen, because frankly he didn't care. Whether he'd meant to or not, now he was sitting closer to his host who was his guest tonight, almost no space between them on the couch as Italy drank one more time from his cup and China filled it again from the much lighter vessel. It felt like handing over a reward for saying such pleasing things, and Italy didn't hesitate to drink again. Whatever was tumbling in his mind wasn't compelling him to stop.

"Now tell me something…" China whispered, and something tickled the back of his mind and asked where the line between Yao Wang and the People's Republic was supposed to be. "Something I want to know about you…"

"What, that Germany hates me?"

"_Shh_…" He'd barely had anything to drink so alcohol was no excuse for this giddy feeling. It was something else entirely that, when asked if he should touch Italy's lips with one finger or simply hush him with his voice, demanded contact with warm skin. And Italy didn't pull away either, he just watched with muted green eyes that wavered with a question his mind couldn't put together in the haze.

"Tell me something," China repeated, still whispering so the moment wouldn't shatter around them. His finger drifted to the side and brushed over smooth lips, hooking under the strong angle of a freshly shaved chin and holding that round face tilted slightly back. "Tell me… what you won't do."

Quiet greeted the question, quiet and a slow blink before lips tried to move and that melodic voice forgot how to speak.

"Won't do what?" It was the closest he could come to saying he didn't understand, and as painful as it was China withdrew his hand from that warm skin. He gestured instead of Italy to raise his cup again and take another drink, which he did without even a pause. The empty ceramic touched the cool glass and then China asked his question again, but phrased it differently.

"You need money."

"Yes."

"You need help."

"Yes."

"You need friends."

"I _don't_ trust you…" He wanted to kiss those Roman lips for saying it again. He wasn't asking for trust but he couldn't act on such a sudden impulse either.

"_Never_ trust me," China praised, "Just answer: what _won't_ you do for my help?"

"I don't…"

"What would break this deal, Italy?" China pressed, not because he had to do it, but because he _wanted_ to know. "What would make you walk away from all of this with me?"

The question confounded him in a different way this time, and China could tell the difference because instead of staring at him blankly, Italy blinked slowly and let the eye-contact between them twist and break away. He was quiet, but he was thinking.

"I… we need it." He mumbled the words without really moving his lips, which was a shame. When he shook his head though China reached out and touched his chin again with two fingertips: Italy kept speaking as his head was turned for him. "There's no way I could-"

"You always have the option of walking away."

"Bullshit."

"Lovino." He used the name that meant more than just a personal touch, and it cut through enough of the fog in confused green eyes that it was clear his blood was battling off the poison. China didn't mind that though, he was rewarded enough by the sight and touch of flushed skin, the breathless way that voice formed scattered words, the dazed light in beautiful eyes… Actually keeping him intoxicated wasn't necessary, and China felt his subtlety melting away as he crept so much closer across the couch, pleased with the feeling of a warm leg pressed against his and the faded scent of aftershave on tan skin.

"Yao…" It took him a long time to whisper the name back, and it made China catch his own lip between his teeth and hold it like that, all of his attention momentarily latched onto the narrow mouth in front of his. But he had more to say first, so he looked at those confused eyes again and said it:

"We both know what it's like to be held against our will." Histories aside, maybe Yao knew better than Lovino did: a hundred loops to one. "We both know what it's like to be acted against without consent." A hundred chances to bleed out and die, a hundred ways to regret foolishness and ignorance, a hundred times left as a shell of what had once been great and was now left dying. "So understand that whatever we write on paper, we are always free to walk away…"

Understanding: sunlight shimmering through spring leaves.

Empire: a clear voice that broke through wine, fatigue, and humility.

"If you ever target my brother the way you're targeting me now, China, I'll break both your fucking legs."

"And if I just keep targeting you like this?" Two fingers under a smooth chin became two fingers that moved down the dips and curves of a strong throat, running over the knot of a tie that gave up its strength with barely a tug or two in the right direction. "I want to help Veneziano, I really do, but you I'd much rather-"

"Just get on with it." A silk tie and pearl buttons, a few black hairs at the edge of a dark chest.

Lips sticky and sweet with the taste of plumb wine.

Heavy hands meant for farming and war.

A lean body sick from toil and neglect.

Skin blushed by wine and hot from the southern sun.

Not Rome.

"_Yes…_"

But close enough.

* * *

Seven o'clock, Romano left.

Eight o'clock: not home.

Nine o'clock: not home.

Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock: Veneziano was not going to bed until he came home.

One, two, three in the morning: why wouldn't Romano come home?

* * *

He could have walked away.

It was the first coherent thought to hit Romano after it was done: he could have said no.

He hadn't even asked what China would have done if he'd walked away, if he'd just said no, I don't want to do that.

Neither of them fell asleep, Romano just found himself sore and exhausted on the hotel's fine bed, his clothes a mess- some on, most off. He felt China roll off the side of the mattress to stand and that was when the thought hit him, because that was when the feeling hit him too.

He could have just said no.

Instead he listened to the sound of a pen warble across a piece of paper, the nub biting through to the desk. Romano didn't even have to look: he knew it was the contract from earlier that day, and he knew China had just signed it, as promised, and that they could move on now.

They could move on because it hadn't been about Romano at all: China'd called him "Rome" several times and the name just curdled his blood. The connection hadn't crossed his mind and all of the sudden it had been there, in his face, on top of him and taking what it wanted. It was done now but that just meant there was no taking it back.

"You're more than welcome to stay." He heard the smile and the satisfaction. From across the room he felt the heat of the lighter coming to life and igniting the end of a cigarette, but his lungs felt too clogged with something else to consider smoking one of his own.

"I'd rather just go home."

China didn't try to kiss or touch him again. He just felt him smile from across the room.

Romano watched the sun brighten the eastern sky over Rome, and demanded to know why he hadn't just said no.

* * *

Veneziano blinked and it was six in the morning.

The change didn't scare him, he was frustrated for having fallen asleep. Now his back and shoulders were sore. In fact, now everything was sore because their kitchen chairs were hard and he'd fallen asleep slouched over on one.

His phone was still on and he checked again to find no new messages or calls. He hadn't missed a signal or a plea, he hadn't missed anything at all by falling asleep for three hours.

But just to be extra-sure, he hurried upstairs and checked in Romano's room: it was empty.

He checked his own room, but there was only Gino sprawled across his pillow.

When he looked outside, he was just in time to see a taxi pull up on the edge of their street right by the front door. The car door popped open, the person he wanted to see slowly climbed out, and everything that had kept him up all night finally retracted its claws and fell away.

With a deep breath in that he slowly let out, Veneziano moved away from the window and calmly stood at the edge of the entry-way, watching the front door as the driver was paid for his services and he heard the vehicle pull away.

The door didn't open right away, but that was fine.

Thirty seconds later, it was still closed.

Two minutes went by and he hadn't unlocked the door.

Five minutes and Veneziano was scared again.

He unlocked the door himself, removing the chain Romano had installed and twisting the dead-bolt until it rattled back in place. The handle gave under his hand and the hinges flexed smoothly. Outside the morning air was cold and that was what washed over his ankles and bare feet, but he swallowed the fear that maybe Romano wouldn't be standing there when he looked up.

But he was, it was him: he was right there and all he needed to do was come inside and they'd be okay again. They'd be just fine. They were going to get through this together.

They were gonna be fine.

"Romano?"

They were gonna… be just fine…

"I…"

Romano was staring down across the threshold, his mouth cracked open and the words he'd tried to use crumbling away like chalk. It happened quickly and Veneziano didn't understand it, but his brother's lips began to tremble, and his eyes were turning red at the edges, and it made his heart start to break just standing there not doing anything to help. When he reached out with one hand, just something small to try and make Romano come inside, his brother's broken voice coughed and scraped its way out of his mouth.

"He signed." What had China done to him? "He signed everything, so we're gonna be just-"

"What's wrong?" His brother couldn't even get through the words, there were tears on his face and he covered his mouth with one hand to stop the sounds that tried getting out of him. "Romano come inside."

"Nothing's wrong!" But he was still weeping, both of his hands brushing back and forth under his eyes trying to stop the tears that kept coming. Veneziano couldn't remember seeing him like this, and the smile he was putting on kept slipping off. "The deal's signed so it's okay, nothing bad happened and I'm fine!"

"Romano-"

"Nothing bad happened!" He couldn't say it like that, those words just made the lie stand out worse. He knew they made it worse because Veneziano could remember how they'd felt in his own mouth.

"Come inside," He repeated instead, holding one hand out and moving so there was space for Romano to pass him. His brother was going to rub his eyes raw if he kept trying to scrape away the tears, but he wouldn't stop.

"I just-"

"It's safe inside… come." Come inside where it was safe and nothing could touch either of them.

"I need a bath…" Then Veneziano would run him a bath.

But first he helped Romano over the threshold and locked the door behind him. His hands were clumsy with the buttons on his jacket so Veneziano took care of that for him too, not asking where his tie had gone before gently pulling his brother into a hug. Romano let him do it, and that meant he wasn't scared.

"Nothing bad happened…" But he whispered those words again with his arms hooked around Veneziano, and the younger brother just closed his eyes and hung on to him, waiting for the shaking and shivering in the other body to pass. He didn't mention how much Romano smelled like alcohol and sweat, he just wanted him to know that he was back home where he belonged now.

Romano needed his help going up the stairs. He didn't look like it, but when they were half-way up and Romano nearly fell, Veneziano was the one who caught his arm and kept him from crashing back down to the hard floor. He started crying again and said it was just because he was tired.

When he saw the dark marks on his brother's skin in the bathroom, that was when Veneziano had to stop. The only sound was the hot water Romano wanted tumbling into the tub to fill it, but instead of trying to pretend he hadn't seen them, Veneziano stood up straight and looked right at his other half. Now he needed to know.

And Romano knew he did, because with red eyes and his mis-buttoned shirt half off his shoulders, South Italy made and broke eye contact with him several times. Veneziano gave him time to process and to think, but he needed to know.

The words Romano finally settled on were: "I could have said no."

"If he hurt you like that, then why didn't you?" The marks were not bruises like from fingers or fists. His skin wasn't burnt or cut. They were marks of attention, of focus, maybe even passion, but what was visible just on Romano's skin didn't make up everything that had happened. When his brother broke eye contact again, Veneziano waited.

"It didn't hurt." He seemed more ashamed by that than by what had happened: it just wasn't the kind of hurt that Veneziano meant… "But I could have said no."

"Do you want me to stay here?" If he wanted to be alone then Veneziano could go make them something to eat, or make sure Romano's bed was made and ready for him. Instead he just watched his brother look at the steaming tub and rub his arms slowly through his white shirt, and then without looking at him he nodded twice. Stay.

So he stayed, and he didn't ask any more questions as he helped wash and rinse his brother's dark hair, handing him a rag and enough soap to take care of himself in the hot water. He left to fetch fresh clothes and to call and say that Romano wouldn't be into the office until late today, if at all, and then came back and helped his brother dress in soft cotton clothes for sleeping.

"I mean it." Romano hugged him again before they left the bathroom, and he whispered his next words like a secret. "I mean it, Feliciano: nothing bad happened to me."

"But did it upset you?" And he hugged him back because it made them both feel better, his face down on his brother's shoulder where he could smell the soaps that washed away the smoke and sweat. He made his left hand hold on tight to the back of Romano's shirt, just to prove he could make it work the way it had to spread soap and spill water. He felt that other heart beating next to his and felt calmer, even though he wasn't the one who needed comfort.

"It did, but I'm okay."

"I know you are, but that still makes it a bad thing."

It was a long hug because that was what it needed to be, just something warm and close and comforting. It had to feel good because he knew Romano felt worse than he would admit, and it had to be calming because Veneziano could feel himself getting angry.

Very angry.

Angry at someone he couldn't target. Angry over something he hadn't been able to stop.

He helped his brother into bed and Romano tugged on his arm until he joined him under the blankets. They didn't wrap each other up in their arms, but their fingers wove together with palms close, wrists folded over one another warmly. Foreheads came together on the same pillow and sharing quiet breaths was comforting and quiet. When Gino pawed his way up onto the bed Romano didn't complain about the cat, he just looked at their connected hands and came up with soft words.

"It wasn't like what happened to you." Neither of them wanted to hear it, but maybe they both needed to. "It wasn't like that at all. I had a choice, so I'll live with it."

"Just because it was a choice doesn't mean it was a good one." Squeezing Romano's hands a little, they didn't need to be any closer: this was close enough. "Something worse happened to me, but something bad still happened to you."

"It doesn't count next to what you-"

"It counts, Lovino…" He whispered, because now they'd discussed it and now he didn't want to talk about it anymore. "It counts, it counts, everything counts, and that doesn't make it okay…"

Romano kissed him under his eye, and he returned it with one on his brother's cheek. The quiet settled over them like a blanket, but the anger was still there, and it made the warmth too much to sleep with. He knew Romano was still awake just by the way he was breathing, so he said the only thing he could think of to try and make the anger quiet down.

"…Do you want me to call Spain?" Because China wasn't someone who he could just walk up to and frighten away, or demand to see. Things were different with Spain though, everything was different, including Romano's heart.

"Why?" But his brother didn't even open his eyes, he just asked the question in a tired voice. "What good would that do? If he even came he'd just ask me what it was all for: why I'd hand myself over for a piece of paper…" And that meant Spain was out of the picture, which meant Veneziano could close his eyes again and rest his cheek against the warm fingers curled between his.

"Was it just for a piece of paper?" he asked softly, rhetorically.

"Of course not…"

"Then that would be a stupid question for him to ask," and the warmth of the bed was starting to get to him. "But I know why you did it, and I'm sorry."

"Don't be." And he could hear the comfort and warmth chipping away at his brother's strength too. "I could have said no, I was just stupid..."

"I'm sorry, Lovino."

"Shut up, stupid."

Romano was home, and they both fell asleep.

* * *

**This was going to be a really well-layered chapter with scene breaks, but then I realized there was no way for it to be night in Italy when it was night in the Eastern USA. Stupid earth being a stupid shape. **

**Leave a Review! Next chapter: Alfred!**


	38. Run For Me

**Hero, Bad Apple, Velocitron, Hypnotica, Black Blade, Fire Nation, Memories, Eternal Empire, Tristan and Isolde, Tristan, Mombasa, The Dream is Collapsing.**

**If you like America, you're gonna have a hard time, friends. **

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Run For Me

It was dark when they pulled him out of the cell. The lights were on, but the shadows they cast were stark black. Suit jackets, starched pants, close-cropped hair, the men with their strong arms restraining him looked like ghouls in the concrete walls and cinderblock barricades.

They lifted and dragged him, they put him in chains. They weren't the heavy iron manacles of another age, but the stainless steel braces around his wrists and ankles were stronger than those had once been, their delicate chains twinkling in the harsh glare of flashlights and ceiling lamps.

His fever had come and gone again, nearly breaking before a wave of something else in his system started the cycle over from the beginning. It felt like a commercial for indigestion: the pitching nausea in his gut, the lancing cold of the fever's spikes, the shivers and trembling shakes as muscles spasmed painfully around brittle bones. He wasn't going to die, but maybe it was something he could start hoping for.

'_Take this face away_,' it was one of the few coherent thoughts he could form as he was bundled and loaded up into a tight space with coarse synthetic fabric and a constricting belt to keep him in place. _'I don't want it anymore, God, take it away.'_ The machine's engine grumbled once before roaring to life, and the chatter of voices through a black plastic box needled him with sharp darts of frustration. Every little prick of irritation spouted sweat from his pale skin, and when he dropped his head between his knees, he wanted to bite the hand that dared to touch his back.

"_Where's Westwood?"_ He breathed the words like exhaust billowing out the back of the jeep carrying them. The air felt hot over his tongue and carried the sour taste of bile, but he said them and he only did it once.

"He's in the car behind us." He didn't know the voice of the man next to him. He didn't want to know it either: not Westwood, not Phil, not that good guy from New England. "I can get him on the radio if you need to speak to him." But that sounded like an order Phil had given, because the agent didn't get it and he didn't sound like he wanted to try either: why give the radio to a prisoner? Why bring the crazy kid along for the ride?

America couldn't blame him for the last part. If given the choice he would have left Alfred F. Jones behind to rot too.

"No…" he was quiet for a long time after that, or for what he hoped was a long time.

The car the jeep the SUV, whatever it was that was carrying him made turns and rolled with the shape of the road. He saw the lights flash dirty yellow and pale orange and glint over the manacles binding his wrists, the slender links of the silver chain holding fast to one another like a taunt. He counted them as he felt them speed up and slow down into another wide turn along a concrete path. He counted the links: forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty…

There were more than fifty links, but he hit that number and started again. With every number, he felt that heat in his gut starting to rise a little higher, and maybe burn a little hotter.

Because one, two, three meant Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey.

And four, five, six was Georgia, Connecticut, Massachusetts.

Seven, eight, nine, ten: Maryland, South Carolina, New Hampshire, Virginia…

Eleven, Twelve, _Thirteen_.

New York, North Carolina, _Rhode-_

"No."

_Burn!_

* * *

They were driving quickly and trying to make good time. There was an airfield on the edge of the city where a secure air-craft was being prepped to carry Philip Westwood and Alfred F. Jones, plus their security detail, back straight to Washington DC.

Security protocol meant the black SUV carrying Jones went first, because as far as the state and its agents had to be concerned, Phil was their main priority. God forbid anything happen to them on the state highway, but if it did the front car could behave like a decoy. Two agents and Jones in the first care, three agents and Phil in the second one.

It was dark and maybe Phil had forgotten what time exactly it was supposed to be outside. He'd been on the phone and lost in his e-mails and work documents since that hair-raising phone-call several hours ago. He knew he'd pissed off a lot of people and stepped on a lot of toes when he put his foot down about Jones, but he just couldn't let it go. It wouldn't have been _right_ to let it go.

The interstate highway that carried them out where they needed to be was lit with the dark orange lights of an old construction project, green and blue signs announcing their exit before it appeared along the endless miles of gold four-lane freeway. A concrete barricade separated east and west bound traffic, and as Westwood looked out the heavily tinted glass to peer out at the dark trees whipping past them, he knew they were being suspended several meters in the air by the engineering. They were just skirting the edge of the city and the milky lights were bleeding through the orange glare, but no matter how quiet it was inside and how calm the world seemed beyond that industrial edge, things were getting dangerous.

"Is he swerving?"

The engine wasn't loud but the whole vehicle was humming with it, rumbling and vibrating with the shocks separating the passengers from the faults in the road. From his place in the backseat Phil looked up from where he'd been staring out the dark windows, and he pieced the words together when he saw the black SUV fifty yards ahead of them suddenly swerve before something terrible happened.

Their exit was coming up quickly, but when the other vehicle tried switching lanes Phil didn't understand how the simple maneuver turned into a sudden, violent twist that threw the back end of the SUV out. Maybe he really did hear the tires screaming over the pavement before they lost their grip all together. The roof spilled down and the machine showed its belly to the sky, and before Phil could stop himself he heard his voice yelling behind bullet-proof glass for someone or something to stop what he was seeing.

The driver slammed the breaks and he almost lost his seat completely before his seatbelt caught and slammed him back against the black padding. When their car fish-tailed over the dry road Phil felt his heart stop for a moment, but the tires grabbed the road again and put them straight before they finally came to a grinding halt.

"_Shit!_"

"No, what the fuck happened?"

How had that happened? What was the reason? It was a smooth road with no traffic, now slowly filling with smoke and exhaust from the totalled wreck in front of them. Broken glass was glittering on the road, pieces of twisted metal and the shreds of a blasted tire decorating the pavement. There was no way a freak accident like that-

"Is that-?" Movement from inside the totalled vehicle: a pair of hands that reached up into the cold night air from what looked like the back passenger window. "You're shitting me, that's-!"

Hands and arms connected to a blonde head and a sweat-stained teeshirt, handcuffs missing and strength restored to the point where the boy no one understood or wanted to trust pulled himself up on top of the wreck.

"Alfred…?" Phil breathed the name and somehow felt the attention of the young man standing there over broken glass and bent metal land on him.

It didn't make sense.

How had they crashed? Where were his bonds? Since when could a boy half-dead from fever hoist himself straight up and out of a wreck two federal agents hadn't stirred from yet? Their radio was silent and none of the agents around Westwood had spoken into their's yet, they were just dumbstruck, staring.

Alfred swung his arms and with a hop jumped from the shattered vehicle to the debris-laden ground, landing squarely on his feet and standing up straighter than Phil had seen him before.

As soon as the head agent in the seat in front of him popped open his door and screamed "_Stop!_" with one hand going for his side-arm, Phil felt his stomach hit the SUV floor. Alfred's ankle bonds had gone the same way as the chains around his wrists, but none of the agents in that car held the keys to open them.

He instantly realized that he'd made a mistake.

Because the boy with a Presidential bounty on his back took one long look at the agent advancing on him with a gun, bared his teeth, and ran.

* * *

"_Attention all units, attention all units."_ The patrol radios on the dashboard of every state trooper and county police officer crackled.

"_Accident on Highway 283 southbound, suspect escape in progress. Federal agents injured, please respond north of-"_

Technical information and landmarks given, three, four sirens answer the call and peel off into late night traffic.

* * *

America wasn't stupid.

He could have his moments.

But when he made the decision in the tilted wreck to snap the chains that taunted him, it wasn't a mistake. Running wasn't a stupid idea, and neither was the heat: that energy the+ men around him hadn't been able to fight off, the confusion that scattered human senses and made them angry and rash and uncontrollable with a fighter's passion and a patriot's will.

He wouldn't do it again, but he didn't trust himself when he said that. His body was stronger for having given in, for making that change instead of laying back and waiting for the universe to sort itself out. He just wasn't laid-back enough for that kind of thing, he was too proactive for fate.

Taking the gun from the unconscious agent next to him did skirt the line of stupidity, but America chose to view it as a calculated risk. He was too headstrong for subtlety.

Should Alfred Fucking Jones go out with a bang?

Yes.

Yes he should.

So when America heard the shouts and two bullets fly wide of his position, he got a leg up on the concrete divide in the middle of the highway. Decades of parkour-training kicked in and took him straight up with his sneakers gripping the wall. As soon as he reached the height he missed his gloves, ripping the palm of his hand on the sharp stone as he straddled the high perch and twisted his body around, pulling the pilfered weapon from the strap of his pants where he'd dangerously stuffed it. He knew the tilt and lean of a standard CIA pistol and its FBI counterpart, so when he drew the side-arm and whipped it around, he knew neither shot he fired would hit.

But he still put two in the pavement, and a third one glanced off the black body of the SUV. It upgraded him to an Armed Felon and added assault with a deadly weapon to the list, and with that done he dropped towards the noise and danger of the east-bound lanes.

Let them come, they'd have to shoot across four lanes of traffic first.

* * *

"_Attention all units, attention…_

_Suspect is on foot crossing westbound over 283. Suspect name: Alfred Jones. Description: white male, early twenties, blonde, white shirt and glasses. Backup requested by federal officers, all available units please respond."_

* * *

America hit the other side and sprinted across four almost-empty lanes, playing a dangerous game with a semi-truck that came barrelling down on him with full lights and a blaring horn. As soon as he hit the safe edge he pitched the gun into the trees and vaulted the railing keeping pedestrians off the highway and away from the maintenance walk-ways. He wasn't far from the ground, but it was far enough not to leap it.

He could see the city lights and traveller comforts staining the night, running down rusty stairs and climbing over another fence with sweat coming down his face to chill his fevered skin. He charged from pavement into wild growth and tore his jeans on the barbed wire waiting for him when he got to that border.

Could he have just hidden there under the cover of wild bushes and noise-blocking trees? Of course. But America wasn't the kind to cower in the dark and hide when he had a point to make.

He tripped twice, fell once, nearly lost himself for good on the rocks and water of a creek the highway had adopted for rain run-off.

Up another chain link fence, this time without the barbs, and his feet hit shorn grass and city light.

It was two-hundred yards of open air before the first row of service stations, streetlights and the township beyond, and Alfred F. Jones took it at a run for America.

* * *

"_Suspect responsible for multiple injuries to federal personnel: extensive military training, ex-army and prone to violent and erratic behavior. Civilian safety is top priority, suspect potentially violent: approach with caution."_

Thirty seconds later:

"_Suspect confirmed armed and dangerous."_

* * *

With fifty yards to go at a dead run he heard the first sirens whining somewhere in the night, looking for the highway.

With twenty he saw the lights from a startled cruiser flash on at the nearest drive-through. America laughed through his teeth and shot himself at the nearest service door propped open for the May breeze. The siren chased him and he kept running.

* * *

"_Dispatch, suspect sighted breaking west from the highway! Description is a match- he just bolted inside a local restaurant- we are in pursuit!"_

The patrol car radios in what it sees, and the first of the two officers in the vehicle jumps out at a run to follow the madman.

* * *

White walls, white light, and the startled screaming voices of the part-time and under-paid.

One fry cook tried to stop him with words, another dove out of his way as the loud bellow of a county officer blasted through the back of the cramped and over-heated space.

Shortening his stride so he could move, America hit the counter with one hand and swung his legs out, a tray of tall fountain-drinks sacrificing itself in a spray of sugar and water that slicked up the floor with more shouts and startled screams. But he cleared the barrier, that was what mattered, and after that he went hoofing it over the grey linoleum to glass doors and freedom.

Actually, make that glass doors and more flashing lights.

* * *

Phil's world was spinning, and he wanted it to stop.

He wanted a reset, a do-over, a chance to sit down and figure out what the hell had happened in the space of fifteen minutes to make his headache turn into a full on disaster.

"Did you see how fast he _moved?_" He wasn't allowed to get any of that, because life didn't work like a videogame or a movie or a book: you couldn't just make a decision and go back to try again.

"An ambulance is on its way- look at these guys how the hell was he fine after that crash?" If anybody could do that, it would have been the driver from the totalled SUV, because he was still inside the mangled wreck and the rest of the agents knew better than to try moving him before an that ambulance could get here.

"_What happened…?"_

"Just stay calm, Jensen, you'll be fine." The lead agent was pissed with Phil's lousy decision and he knew it. But this couldn't have been Alfred's fault- that didn't make any sense.

But why had they crashed?

And how was he free?

And why the _hell_ were they all just waiting around here?

"Which way did he go?" God help him, he was not going to stand around and do nothing. "Someone answer me: how the hell do I find him!?"

* * *

He hit the dark air and the bold arm held out to clothes-line him. Pain fired up his thigh as his sneaker caught the floor and the rest of his body tried moving forward without his head. He hit concrete and asphalt in a heap, but before the vigilante trying to stop him from running could say a word, America twisted his core and slammed his hands on the ground. His legs coiled up under him and he bounced to his feet, the world a mess of bright light and yelling voices as he had just enough time to see a county-officer and another gun before-

"_Freeze!_"

"No."

-he bolted all over again, and he heard a gunshot that shattered glass and sent teens and families screaming.

The reckless discharge gave him anger, and anger gave America strength, and he poured all of that into his legs with his arms pumping and the cold air beating his face. Parked cards and yellow painted lines shot past him and the angry sound of voices warbled through the dark, but he leapt over the hedge at the end of the lot and hit the pavement again on the other side.

There was no point sparing a glance before he barrelled straight through the next intersection, he just listened for the brakes screaming and horns blaring before he jumped one more time and felt the collision of his elbow on a hard windshield. The heat of the engine scorched his leg through his jeans and the hood of the silver car he slid over, but his feet found the ground again and he ran. He just _ran_.

Ran through the amber lights and ran when the red and blue started wailing again behind him. He ran and he ducked across more painted lines and a cyclist who swerved dangerously to avoid him, throwing himself into the dank shadows of an alleyway as the sirens rose in volume and he felt his world twisting between the smell of garbage and the flashing of police car lights.

His lungs had stopped hurting, his fever had stopped touching him: adrenaline got him to kick up a wall and jump with both arms up: he caught the bottom rung of a fire-escape ladder hitched up to the side of one of the buildings. The lock was good and didn't drop or try to impale him with a sudden fall, and when more shouting voices told him to get the fuck down and put his hands over his head, America grunted and forced one arm to bend while the other reached for the next rung up.

Repeat.

Repeat.

_Bang- bang!_

"Gun reform!" He shouted, flinching when one bullet ricocheted past his head after blasting the rusty metal where his hand just been. "Look it up!"

But he reached the platform. The rusted red steel shook and rattled as he let his wounded hand hold the rail and pull him up each flight of cramped steps all the way to the rooftop. He was only two stories up, and his options were limited, but he could already hear the clash and bang of someone pulling the ladder down properly.

The next rooftop was a leap of faith away.

America took that leap.

* * *

"Why does this kid mean so much to you?"

"Why doesn't he mean _anything_ to you!?" Phil didn't have to wrestle for the keys to the SUV because their driver had left them in the ignition. What he had to fight with was the lead agent who pulled the driver's side door open as soon as he saw Phil climb inside and try to put the vehicle in gear. "Your people are injured, I get it: stay here and make sure they're taken care of but _I_-"

"-am going to stay here. Mr. Westwood this is not a _joke._"

"_They're shooting at him!"_ He could hear it through the radio on the dash-board, he'd heard it come out of one of the agents' mouth while they spoke to each other on the highway with police cars and two ambulances scattered around them near the shattered body of the second SUV. County officers were firing guns at Alfred F. Jones, and it just scattered any other thoughts Phil tried to focus on. "If his life is some kind of joke to you then you're a sick fuck. The President's been shot, our allies hate us, the Free World is falling! If you think I'm not taking any of this seriously then think again: I'm taking the one thing I can fucking do seriously enough that if you don't either get in here or take two steps back, I _will_ run you over and I _will_ go to prison for it."

His declaration, as stupid and poorly phrased as it was, earned him a tense, unreadable stare-

"_Move!_"

"Yes, sir."

And complete co-operation as the agent shut the driver's side door, cut around in front of the SUV, and climbed into the passenger seat without another word.

Phil cranked the wheel, hit the accelerator, and they were off.

* * *

America was running out of faith.

But he had enough luck that when he straightened his body in mid-air to land on his back, he hit the contents of a dumpster, not the solid ground that would have brought tonight to an end he didn't want. The metal pieces that bit into the base of his neck between the shoulder blades was a small price to pay for a maneuver the men chasing him wouldn't repeat. The smell on his clothes as he grappled with the side of the dumpster and hoisted his body out was forgotten when he heard shouts overhead and another wailing siren.

Instead of breaking out onto the street again, another service door let him into the back of an office: the secretary screamed when he came running through the dark-lit space and passed a photocopier, coming out into the light of a small insurance brokerage and bolting through the front door. It put him around a corner and back on a major road, and as a large flat-bed truck came roaring by after pacing at a stop-light, America charged and threw himself at the sharp metal corner and tightly knotted cords of the vehicle's backside.

The truck didn't even lurch, but as the speed of traffic picked up and Alfred knotted his wrists in the thin ropes holding a tarp down over boxes and barrels, the sirens were confused but not far. He shimmied his way into the driver's blind-spot, but that didn't mean the car following them didn't suddenly lean on his horn as soon as he realized something completely wrong was happening in front of him.

The honking caused the truck to slow and speed up in confusion. When the back end started to swerve back and forth as the driver checked every mirror trying to figure out what the hell was going on, the white sedan America craned his neck around to see flashed its high-beams at him. The blinding white light made the truck honk back in frustration, and then before he was ready for it America felt his ride making a wide left turn that shook off the antagonizing little car.

It left him facing a lot of open asphalt under glowing highway lights again, the road bending up as they climbed onto an over-pass and the streets he'd just run through began to shrink into the darkness. It was impossible to relax with his legs cramped against the bumper of the truck, but at least he had a moment to catch his breath and get his plan back together.

The wind was loud and threatened to throw him off, his torn hand throbbing with pain from so much climbing and grappling. His lungs were shredded, his legs weak and numb with pain. He saw the back of a highway sign run over his head and felt the wind start to scream a little louder past his cold ears, but with only fifty yards of road between him and the next set of confused, flashing head-lights, jumping would have been a dangerous risk.

If he fell and he died, would that make him Alfred or America?

If he fell and he was only hurt, again, who would that mean he really was? If no one else could believe in what he knew was true, how was he so sure they weren't right. Maybe he really was insane? Alfred had carried the delusion _'I am America'_ with him every time he'd stepped through a cursed door parcelled with unbreakable windows and silent corridors. But what did America have to fear if he was just carrying around the delusion of Alfred's mortality?

He set his forehead down on the rough tarp trying to get his thoughts ordered and meaning straight, and came up with a simple answer to the question:

Fuck it.

* * *

"Is that-?"

"Speed up!"

Phil did speed up, and he broke eight rules of the road to do it through an intersection where he'd been about to turn right to get into the town proper and follow the scrambled shouts from frustrated country police about a reckless fugitive who kept running and vanishing without warning. When a truck carrying a load of covered cargo turned in front of him with a blond stowaway clinging to the back, he nearly caused a collision with a white sedan before trying to make sense of the lines on the road and the direction the truck was travelling in. As soon as the route became clear, Phil sped up.

A hundred yards between the two vehicles became seventy, became forty, became twenty, became-

Alfred _jumped._

It wasn't a fall: he didn't slip down the back of the truck and get torn off of it by the road. His hands let go of the ropes and his legs pushed back against the bumper. When he turned in the air Phil swore for one split second he saw shock on Alfred's young face, eyes hovering over the polished hood of the car as the world completely froze-

And then with the lurch of a body passing under the front tires of the SUV, reality slammed into him and he felt himself screaming. He didn't know where to put his hands: on his face? In hair? On the wheel? He just screamed and stomped his foot first on the accelerator in panic, then the brakes and he felt the whole vehicle swerve and fish-tail. They zig-zagged across the lane before he wrapped his hands around the cold plastic, bending his shoulders into turning the wheel before finally mastering the engine to a terrifying halt.

"No- no, _no!_"

"Westwood-"

"_Shut up!_" Just shut up, oh God, he couldn't have just-

He popped his door open and almost killed himself by stepping down into the oncoming lane. Another driver swerving violently with a blaring horn and the agent jerking him back inside was what saved him from losing a leg as the wind blew his door shut. He had to just sit there, numb, for another five seconds waiting for an actual break in the late night traffic before trying again.

"Alfred!" He wasn't stopped this time, he reached the pavement and just ran back across almost fifty yards of distance between where the SUV had stopped and where the body was laying.

And he had to call it a body, a child's body, because he could see the dark stain on the asphalt and it was growing deeper and wider. His shoes just scuffed over the small bits of stray gravel and dust on the highway road, his tie blown back over his shoulder by the wind and his jacket coming off with several hard, struggling tugs between broken breaths and shattered words he was trying to say.

"No… no... no… Al, _no_…"

He was just lying there, and when Phil dropped onto his knees next to him he could smell the blood and exhaust. His tee-shirt was shredded down one side, road-burn weeping blood from his shoulder and arm. He was lying partially on his stomach with his arms still half-wrapped around him where he'd tucked them in hoping to roll away from the truck. His blond hair was matted from the sweat and the blood, and the red was still weakly dribbling out of a massive gash across the back of his skull. His neck was bent the wrong way, there were shards of bone jutting out of his collar, and his legs were twisted and limp on the ground.

There were _tire marks_ on him for God's sake, and between hot breaths that felt like someone was behind him with their hands around his neck, Phil placed the jacket over the broken body praying it would help hide some of the damage.

There were headlights shining on them from another car that had turned to come this way up onto the highway and was now stopped by something Phil's mind was completely unable to cope with. There were flashing lights somewhere beyond those from a cruiser that had turned its siren off. Behind him he heard the agent calling for an ambulance, somewhere far away in the night a train whistle blew, and somehow with all of those distractions he still noticed when Alfred moved.

Jesus Christ, he _moved._

"Al!" And he doubled right over the body, because he heard and saw the way his shoe scuffed against the road, and when he came down that close Phil was able to hear the dry rasp of shattered lungs trying desperately to take in air. "Al hold on! There's an ambulance on the way and they're gonna take good care of you! Alfred I'm _sorry_-!"

"_Phi…_" His hands- one of them was bleeding across the palm and the other was crushed from the SUV's tire, but he took the one that looked a little less mangled and tried to hold it. He told him not to speak, not to waste his strength on that and to just focus on breathing instead, but he still heard fragments of a voice try and reach him. _"That you… Phil?"_

"Good God, don't speak…" There had to be a way to help him, there had to be something more than holding his hand and moving to look at a half-skinned face mutilated by the road. He should have been able to do more than brush his hand back over those bloody locks of sweat-soaked hair, there should have been something that he could _do-_

"_Phil… ru…"_ His voice sounded like a whisper coming through a long tube, it was broken and so weak, too painful and an effort that would kill him if he didn't _stop…_ "_Run… for me… Phil… run…"_

"Run where?" He should have stopped himself from answering so Alfred wouldn't be encouraged to speak, but the haunting fear crept up on him like the cold air and said that if the boy fell asleep, he wouldn't wake up. "I can't carry you, Al, what are you asking for?"

"_For me… a good guy… Phi… Phil Westwo… wood… should… for me…"_

And then something strange happened. He felt it start in the tips of his fingers, and it crept up along the inside of his palm. He didn't know where it came from, but it was the hand holding Alfred's and he felt it moving slowly, creeping steadily over his wrist and slipping under the cuff of his shirt. When he tried to let go of Al's hand the boy just held on, and it was with a kind of strength that he shouldn't have had left in him after what had just happened.

"Alfred?"

"Run for me…" Did his voice sound… stronger? "That's… what I need…" And- moving?

"Stop! Stop, what are you doing?" He was rolling onto his stomach and somehow making his arms work. Their hands came apart but somehow Alfred's body was supported on his elbows. The act was impossible, but so was the clarity of his voice:

"I need you to run for me."

Impossible, like the milky white of his eyes.

"Al… fred…?" They weren't touching anymore but somehow he could still feel that something- that _heat_ reaching over his shoulder and curling around his throat and chest, digging into the skin trying to get down into the muscles and burrow into his bones. The lights were the same but he was seeing things differently: he heard that train whistle blow again in the dark, but he was staring at a bruised, bleeding young face that had solid whites for eyes: no blue or black, not even red veins etched across them, just white.

And there was still blood on his clothes, but no bones, and his throat was so bruised it looked black: but not broken.

All of it _impossible._

"Run for me." And then that voice, that phantom's voice, was almost enough to terrify him. Whoever this was was still kneeling on the ground, braced now on hands that should have been mangled and useless, staring past strands of sweaty, bloody yellow hair as everyone else who should have been around them seemed pushed to the edge of some unknown boundary.

"I don't understand-"

"You _will._" And then instead of hands and knees, that broken body was braced on fingertips and toes: likes a sprinter. They didn't break eye-contact and Phil found his heart beating louder, stronger in his chest and pumping that heat like adrenaline and cancer from the crown of his head down through his legs. It swept up everything in its path, and when he tried saying the name Alfred again he watched that road-burned face slowly bare its teeth at him.

The dismissive words of a man recently shot came to him:

An immortal man-child who people had seen shot, blown up and run over. Something like an angel with the strength of a devil and the innocence of a child paired with the cruelty of a murderer.

That train's whistle, so much louder and closer now than minutes before, screamed one more time in the dark and it sent that should-have-been-a-dead man charging towards the concrete divide between road and sky. They weren't very high up, but it was enough that the fall would kill someone who dove head-first like he did: and it would kill them even faster when Phil felt the structure holding him up shake with the passage of the train.

And all it took was one more moment, one more shadow of an instant before he finally realized that no one had ever said any of those things about Alfred F. Jones. They'd always meant-

"_America!"_

* * *

_Take this face from me, God. I don't want it anymore._

_I can't wear it anymore._

_I don't own it anymore._

_This face isn't mine, God: it belongs to someone we both know died a long time ago._

_One day I will wither away and die, God. One day I will fall apart and my pieces will bring forth new life._

_New names, new peoples, and new Nations._

_But I'm not dead, God._

_So take this face away from me, God, and give me back my true name:_

_-The United States of America._

* * *

**Hiatus is over, and I think in two more Chapters, Recovery will be too.**

**My prose got kind of purple-y in this chapter? I'm not too sure what happened but god-damn, **_**None Can Die **_**is a song that just, wow. It's short but it's strong, and it kind of hurts too. **

**Alfred in this chapter came out a bit different from how I'd planned (first of all by being run over, which wasn't what I originally aimed for). He was supposed to make it onto the over-pass and then Phil was going to try and talk him down from jumping, only to fail and then have to deal on his own with the death of this kid and be like "jesus christ something needs to change how did the system let this happen". **

**Phil keeps coming out weaker than what I want, so hopefully the last two chapters will show that he really is just as worthy as Rossi of having a Nation's trust. To be fair at least, this was the first time I got to write the human side of when Nations pull the fate card. I was in England's perspective waaaaay back during the earthquake arc where he yelled at his boss, and in Romano's both for the tear-down of Seborga's Prince and then his "GO FIGURE SHIT OUT" mandate to Rossi. **

**This story is really fucking long, and I tend to forget that too sometimes. The earthquake was **_**forever**_** ago so please review! As always, it's an unparalleled pleasure to hear from people who've stuck with this story for so long!**

**Thanks, and see you soon!**


	39. Cloudy Skies with a Chance of Showers

**Starvation, Dreaming of Bag End, Half A Week Before the Winter, Skyfall, Utopia, 24, 21 Guns, Earth, Soldiers (Piano version), Dr. Crab's Prize, Rest Calm, Utopia, Sin & Restitution, Higurashi, Ascension.**

**Ret-conned a detail back in chapter 34: Romano said the legislation had been in the works for six months (since December), when actually it had been four (since February).**

**Minor edit to the section labelled "September 2013" to clarify who the two speakers are.**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Cloudy Skies with a Chance of Showers

_Studio lights and make up teams, brief rehearsals and rough outlines._

_Highlighter marks on key features, teleprompters buffed and the evening stories loaded._

"_And we're live in five, four," _

_3… _

_2… _

…

* * *

_Late May, 2013._

"_To put it simply, Peter, relations between Italy and the EU right now have more to do with public outcry than economics. Germany is under fierce scrutiny by the Italian people for the comments and direct insults used in that leaked document released several weeks ago. Having high officials in Berlin address the Italian people as "lazy", "shameless", and "complicit with corruption", among literally dozens of other accusations, has completely destroyed any hopes these two nations have of communicating peaceably."_

"_As we understand it here at home: the initial reaction from the German public was deeply embarrassed and apologetic, but the anger from the Italians is turning that remorse into resentment. They're becoming more and more defensive… Is it true that, in North Italy especially, tempers are beginning to run high?"_

"_That is absolutely the case, both the German resentment and the Italian anger. I'm standing here in Florence and, as you and viewers at home can clearly see behind me: the Piazza della Signoria is hosting yet another protest today, another rally against the government and the EU. And yes, before you ask: that is definitely an effigy of the German Chancellor, and if last night's protest is any indication then they're going to burn her the way they did the sorry Italian President."_

Major Lorenzo Rossi was not, and had never been considered, a handsome man. He wasn't very tall, and although he could speak to women he simply had never been the type to go around and try too hard to get attention he rarely ever needed. But if there was a girl, or if there was a situation where he just had to impress, if he had to stand up and make sure a quashed nose and small eyes didn't get in the way of what needed to be said and actions that needed carrying out, then that was what the uniform was for.

The uniform didn't care if his head was a bit square with a thick neck connecting it to shoulders that looked rigid and stiff even when he wasn't at attention. His hat didn't rest awkwardly over ears that failed to politely hide under black hair that he didn't let grow out anymore. He preferred a close-cropped military buzz anyways, it was just cleaner, and in his field it was simply more professional: anything to help the uniform do its job.

That was why, two weeks into his 'vacation', Major Rossi was more than done with civilian clothes and civilian rhythms and civilian everything else. He was a pilot by nature and he hated being on the ground or staying cooped up in one place for too long.

What felt like a very long time ago he'd been considering leaving the Military, but that had been before a strange phone-call to the office in the middle of the night. That had been before he'd met a General with a scarred face who aged and grew in a way that was almost frightening, because his kind had a terrifying but inherently captivating way about them.

He'd known his life had taken a strange turn when someone first whispered to him that the man with the scared face was somehow the Nation of North Italy. But truth be told his life had never felt more frustratingly simple since the day that man's brother, South Italy, had told Rossi to go home.

He was a military man who'd been dismissed by his nation. And yes, he _understood _why, but that didn't change anything. He was a military man, a service man, an officer, a pilot, a patriot, and he'd been told to _go home_ by the embodiment of his own country.

He hated every minute he wasn't in Rome, doing his job, helping two brothers who walked circles around each other all day whispering the same name: Italy.

He hated it when he realized that after handing over copies of that impossible brick of paperwork from South Italy to the media, he had no way of being there to make sure some other representation, any other _Nation_ didn't try to come after his country. The leak embarrassed diplomats and humiliated politicians across Europe, and it brought out teeth.

And he hated how the Italian government _took it._ The way they _apologized_ like it was somehow something they should have been sorry for! Their nation was slandered and he heard the President say _'we're sorry the Chancellor is embarrassed',_ or _'improving security in Rome is our top priority!'_

Bullshit, all of it. What kind of government had all the different problems Rossi knew their nation was suffering with and wasted its time trying to span burnt bridges back into Europe? He couldn't stand equating those bashful faces with the leaders who were supposed to be standing over two broken men, pushing, neglecting and blaming them until one vomited blood from the pain and the other was crushed from exhaustion.

He wouldn't let it happen.

He would not let Italy _die._

* * *

_Early June, 2013._

"_We bring you a special live broadcast tonight from Washington D.C. where thousands of mourners have gathered to honour the loss of the late President of the United States. James, can you tell us more about what's happening both in Washington and across the country?"_

"_That's a very hard question to answer, in short: people are scared. You have proud marches moving through the city declaring the late President a hero and espousing the virtues of America, but then two streets over you have protests moving the other way declaring that the nation is dead and the free world is falling. It's very, very hard to get a handle on what's actually happening because no one seems to have any answers. It's like everyone's waiting for someone to stand up and just tell them what to do or what to think, but as well as the Vice President tried with his speech this afternoon when he addressed the people, it just didn't work."_

"_So the American public is waiting for the first and final word from someone who is __**not**__ about to be sworn in as the new president."_

"_I'm afraid so."_

The American President hadn't just been shot, he'd been assassinated.

Killed.

Murdered.

The leader of the so-called Free World had been disposed of by a gunman in his own nation, ultimately left suffering and weak in a hospital bed before finally giving up his life. The event demanded an international response: a gesture on behalf of nations friendly and not-so to show their solidarity with the American people and the idea, power, and authority of state-hood. They all agreed, unspoken and unannounced, that this was what they had to do, that arriving early in America's territory and travelling to his capital was more important than spending an extra three days at home before flying to New York for a UN meeting.

That was what everyone, except America, agreed to. When Japan felt that realization sink in, when it became so painfully clear that America was not going to show up and greet them, he started to hurt.

Japan was not a nation prone to hurting. His people were made to endure, to move on, to persevere and dismiss until the hurting went away, or it was simply too small to notice in the wake of all the schedules and plans and duties. They wouldn't stand there, shell-shocked and wounded in the blood-splatter and emotional grime, or with the tearstains like dust marring precious faces. Japan was a nation who hurt himself and then washed it away, scrubbed it away, bleached and burnt and threw it all away. He would paint and buff and polish himself to an industrial shine and a cultural glow, because there was no room for hurting or gasping when there were places to be and forms to fill out.

But he'd arrived three days ahead of schedule in America.

And he was standing in the pouring rain within sight of the Washington Monument, the white obelisk obscured by the grey and the far away lament of the mourning drums.

And he'd come all this way with nations around him- with Germany holding his black umbrella and scrolling with one thumb over the contents of his phone, the blue glow shining up against the hard lines that had aged him too quickly. And there was England who just kept walking, kept marching back and forth under the weeping clouds with the ebony crook of his umbrella closed in his hand. As he marched the blooming folds rocked back and forth, sloshing rain water off the fabric so they splattered against the concrete ground. France was just watching England in the murk, or at least he was until enough time seemed to pass: then the Frenchman simply lowered his umbrella down and looked up at the sky, closing his eyes and letting the warm May shower cleanse him.

And there were others, so many others. And they were all here, and they were all waiting, and they just wanted to say _'We understand'_. They wanted to give their condolences, they wanted to offer their support, they wanted to be here.

They wanted to be _here_, where America refused to be.

And when Japan couldn't take it anymore from the hurt and the rain, when he knew he couldn't look up into the sky and let it wash away the stains or sooth the stinging cuts, he let his head fall just a little and closed his eyes just enough. He felt the weight of too much pressing down him as another ally left him stranded, and he whispered the only words worth wondering:

"Where _are_ you?"

* * *

Canada should have been surprised. Canada truly, honestly, should have been shocked by how things played out, stumped by the results, and more importantly: he should have given a damn more than he did.

Because he really didn't. Or at least that was what he kept telling himself: he just didn't care anymore. He didn't _want_ to care anymore.

Six hours spent standing in the rain under the Washington monument, and Canada actually had to tell Russia _"We're leaving now"_ because he didn't want to be there anymore. He had tried playing his brother's game one more time by his mysterious rules, and all he had to show for it was wet shoes and a sore umbrella-arm.

America didn't want to be there to receive everyone's sympathies.

Canada had run out of sympathies to give him.

"Matvey?"

"I don't want to talk about it." The taxi ride back to the small hotel in Washington wasn't very long, but Canada didn't want to say anything. Silence had been wrapped around them in the rain, but a few more minutes of it wouldn't hurt them now. He did manage to finally untangle his arms from where he'd crossed them tightly over his own wet chest, and he squeezed Russia's wrist tightly before rubbing his partner's arm for a moment, finally settling for letting Russia weave their fingers together in a warm hold. "If you wanted to stay then I shouldn't have made you leave, I'm sorry."

"We left China behind, but that's alright." Agh, Canada should have thought of that: it was rude to leave without at least offering a ride. "Are you okay?"

No.

"I'm fine, just fed up." More than fed up, more than wounded and betrayed. Canada looked past Russia and the rain-beaded window of the taxi, watching American shops and American people and American everything go by. "I was talking to Mexico again and he says America hasn't been treating him any better."

"I heard there was a border shooting." There had been a lot of violence along the border between Mexico and America, but Canada didn't share that information, nor did he mention the illegal arrest of one of his own at a border-crossing in the Prairies. He just looked down at their hands and repeated himself once more:

"I don't want to talk about it."

And Russia seemed to understand that, because all he gave Canada was a light touch on his face and the silence he'd asked for. The quiet made everything easier to process, because he was fed up with trying to understand a game that hadn't changed in some time. To start with: he had to stop calling this situation with America a game.

They hadn't been there for each other. Not for one, single, solitary moment from the time America told him about the haunted house until now had they as brothers been there for one another. In other loops, maybe, but what were those loops? What were those times Canada had watched his brother die and screamed with an unholy rage against the creature that had hurt him? What were those times Canada had felt himself coming apart, skin splitting open and bones fragmented in blood, and he'd felt America's hand in his hair or heard his voice pleading for life? What were those loops?

Memories, but less than memories.

Dreams really, some kind of nightmare that felt like it was slipping further and further away as time marched on.

The Canada and America of the Second Loop hadn't arrived at the mansion together. They hadn't spoken or seen each other until moments before a hideous sound on the second floor had dragged Italy to his violent death. Canada had dreamt and re-lived and experienced the other loops, but he had only _lived_ for one of them, he only _knew_ one of them, and in this world America had not been there for him, and he had not been there for America.

Even if every loop had happened and everything that happened was really real, that didn't change the fact that two brothers had been little more than strangers throughout an ordeal that had altered their world. And when Bern had ended they'd gone their separate ways, and when they were called back they'd barely communicated save for a handful of stressful radio calls. One hospital visit and a frigid walk along the Saint Lawrence, and that was it: no more brotherhood.

So if America didn't want Canada's sympathies over his murdered leader, then Canada would just take his well-wishes back home.

Those were the bitter thoughts that carried him from the taxi into the squat little hotel where he had to stay. He couldn't get away from the anger nipping at him and cussing loudly that he should just grab his bags and drive back home for three days before flying back down to New York. In fact, he was just about to say exactly that to Russia when he heard something else instead:

"_Are you sure you're okay?"_

"_I…"_

And when he looked at Russia where he noticed the taller nation had stopped all at once, Canada saw the quiet shock on his tall companion's wide face. Russia had such a smooth face, very thick and pale like the rest of him: an exaggerated nose with pale hair that teased the word white before betraying a hint of brown and blond under the frost. When he was surprised his whole body mellowed into a tall square, arms hanging limp from shoulders that sloped down from his thick neck, his pale violet eyes staring while the line of his mouth slowly sagged and the tension went out of his round jaw.

"_Someone get my brother a chair."_

"_No, I'm-"_

But then the voices Canada had already heard finally registered, and he dropped his question when he saw the duo standing at the concierge's desk.

Canada knew about North Italy: England had told him. Canada and Russia had discussed it, worked through it. They had been approached by China and informed, politically, of how they were going to handle it, and they'd been waiting for China's signal to know when they were finally going to meet with it, meet with him. They were willing to walk the fragile line between knowing about North Italy, and actually _seeing_ him again.

But just knowing that North Italy was alive and understanding why he'd been hidden didn't make it any less of a shock when Canada laid eyes on him for the first time in so long. Canada had always been taller than either half of Italy, but now he already felt like a giant as South encouraged North to sit down on the chair that was brought out for him.

The physical differences between North and South probably hadn't existed before the mansion. Now South Italy's aged and toughened looks had a mirror in the pale, paper thin complexion stretched across his brother' boney face. Italy had always possessed a proud Roman profile, a kind of elegance to both of them that evoked the romance of the renaissance they'd inspired. Now where South was tough and leathery, North was skeletal and small.

He was actually _small._ His hands didn't look strong enough to hold the briefcase South Italy made him put down, and there were precious inches missing from the breadth of his shoulders that made him look withered and old between the arms of his chair. South Italy had every reason to fret and worry before he noticed them standing in the doorway and straightened up.

Canada choked, Russia spoke first.

"Is everything alright, Italy?" Canada didn't know which brother Russia was speaking to, it was a valid question for both of them and it made North Italy look up from his seat.

The red tint to his eyes felt foreign and threatening, which made it all the worse when they were housed in that haunted face. The ill feeling only grew stronger when South Italy moved slowly, maybe even subconsciously, to stand between his brother and the door.

"We're fine." Canada wanted to be more upset than he already was with the firm tone South Italy used, but China had warned them. Don't try to separate them when you meet, the Italy Brothers trust no one but themselves now. "Was the meeting a success?" Oh-

And don't be surprised if South Italy speaks for both of them: China had warned them about that too.

"Everyone was there except for whom we came to see." Russia explained things in that relaxed tone of his that always put Canada a little more at ease. They were allowed to cross the pale floor and come closer now, stopping again with what felt like the right amount of space between the two pairs.

Instead of letting the discussion break the way it should have and let Russia and Canada properly address North Italy, the nation they owed more than they'd ever know to, South Italy kept hold of the uncomfortable topic. He almost acted like he didn't know his own brother was there behind him.

"That's not like him, not even for a sombre occasion." Canada didn't want to talk about his own brother, he wanted to talk to Italy's brother instead. "When was the last time you spoke to him?" Eh?

"I'm sorry?" Canada hadn't expected a question, let alone that one, and he felt about as articulate as a frog trying to wrap his head around both a possible answer, and a reason for why both Italies looked so keen to hear one.

"Please excuse me." Russia broke in gently, sparing him the moment of anxiety and turning the topic around by force. "I know you just arrived and you must be exhausted after travelling so far to be here, but it's impossible for me to focus with the elephant in the room."

The way Russia said it with such a bashful smile and a shy tilt back and forth of his head made the suggestion seem harmless or silly. It was a disarming tactic, and Canada wasn't sure if it worked on Italy or just raised his awareness levels: they didn't want him to go on the defensive, but feigning ignorance was hurtful in its own way. Russia didn't need to make a half-gesture towards where North Italy was still resting and silently watching the exchange, but he did it, and it left no room for error or misdirection on Italy's part.

But it did leave him in a difficult position of the stress on his dry face meant anything. When Italy chanced a look back at his brother, something must have passed between them because the elder half let out a slow breath. He didn't seem defeated, but when he finally looked at the two of them again, South Italy backed up slowly and moved around to the far side of his brother's chair. He nodded at them, but the allowance seemed conditional.

Perhaps it would have been kinder on their part to go through this in the privacy of a hotel room, but ultimately it didn't make a difference. Italy stood close by his brother's side, one hand resting on the back of his chair, and Canada and Russia were permitted to approach North Italy slowly. When he tried to stand up, all three of them stopped him.

"No, please, it's alright." Canada hushed, looking down at the nation who had honestly saved his life. It was eerie and painful to accept that everything Canada's people had been spared by having him survive had been dealt back double on the Italian nation responsible for his safety.

North Italy just looked up briefly, wrapped in absolute silence, and after quickly making eye-contact for a moment his gaze fell again to where his hands were neatly folded over his stomach. His small body seemed lost in the volume of his jacket and the black suit he was wearing underneath, but maybe he would improve after the jet-lag wore off. It was a meager hope, but it was something.

"I…" His voice had changed as much as his form however, and it hurt so much to hear that painful rasp. "I haven't left home since that day." The day he'd been rescued… North Italy's head swung around looking for his brother, and South Italy stepped up a little so his other half could see him without straining. "Crossing borders is… difficult."

"The impact is not lost on us." Russia murmured, his voice softening in a tender way that Canada didn't hear very often, but he understood the kind of remorse that it was meant to carry. Watching his large body bow and stoop with the weight of what needed to be said made it hard for Canada to resist reaching out to take his partner's hand. "Thank you…"

Canada tried to say it too, he honestly did. But words were small things that couldn't take away pain or sooth rightful anger. Whatever North Italy felt or believed at this point wouldn't be fixed by two quiet whispers.

But silence and sorry looks wouldn't get the point across either, so when North Italy looked for his brother again and braced himself to stand, probably to leave this time, Canada took a risky leap.

"I'm sorry." He let the words go without whispering or pleading because putting on the garb of emotion wouldn't work here. If they wanted to move past this then Canada had to mean it through action, not sorrow. "I'm sorry and I'm thankful."

Speaking up made both Italy Brothers freeze, and when Canada paused to get his breath back he watched North Italy hesitantly sink back down. At the very least it wasn't a demand to stop, and it earned him a longer moment of sustained eye-contact this time from the wounded nation.

"I'm thankful every day," and he meant it, "every day, that you had the strength to keep going and ultimately protect us like you did. And I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, that nothing has turned out the way it should have since then, but please-"

He didn't know what to do. Canada knew what he wanted- what the part of him that still resonated with the name Matthew Williams wanted, but as a nation it was impossibly hard to agree with it. Pride was inherent in all of them, and wrestling with his was a battle that brought Canada down to one knee in a clumsy, jerking motion. Bowing to another nation was never meant to be easy.

But kneeling like this meant more than sorry words or guilty looks could cover, and Canada had just enough more to say that he was able to fill the awkward silence with a promise he'd already made to himself before now. It was one that China's announcement had made him put together, and take to his boss, and work and fight to make it a reality.

"China's told us what the reality of your situation is." That the Italian Government was going to collapse, that the line between culture and chaos in their territory was going to blur. "If you need them, my first wave of peace-keepers can be on the move within ten hours, less if you give me a day or two of notice." Canada knew that Italy had no real friends left in Europe, so even if he was coming from half the world away: he'd be there. "I've already begun organizing and stockpiling emergency resources, when you need me, Feliciano, this time I won't fail you."

And he meant it, Canada meant it for pride and he meant it out of respect for the nation whose cold, skeletal hand he made himself kiss. It was so _hard_ as a nation, economically sound and political stable, to gesture to another country like this, but Canada owed it to both halves of the Republic of Italy and all of its people to be there for them. He had to do this, and he had to accept what North Italy gave back: a kind hand on his head and a hoarse "thank you" past scarred lips.

But most importantly, he had to accept the way North Italy took a short breath, whispered "but", and asked:

"Why couldn't you have said this to your brother?"

* * *

_Late June, 2013._

"_Can you outline the benefits for the Russian people where Italy is concerned? Why get involved with their politics now, what does the government expect to see in the future when Rome has made a point of doing nothing about anything?"_

"_First you have to understand that the current talks between the Italian Armed Forces and the Russian Military have very little directly to do with the President's administration in Rome. Support in Italy is crumbling for their government, and numerous high officers and commanders in across several branches of the Armed Forces have expressed concern over public safety. This is not a Military Alliance meant to trade arms or fight wars: this is mutual training exercises and administrative work-shops. Russia is not throwing itself into Italian politics: we're answering honest requests for guidance and aid."_

"_Honest requests that aren't coming from the elected government?"_

"_No one in Italy believes in elections anymore: not even the politicians who are paid to run in them."_

Romano had decided a long time ago that he did not like being owned. To him it didn't particularly matter who was holding the leash: the collar was always chafing and uncomfortable.

"Why don't we take a short break?" But the details _did_ matter to Veneziano, and that was making the whole experience with their new allies almost too much to handle.

"A break would be good." Because with China sitting at the other end of the table next to Romano and Veneziano on his other side, the meeting room in Moscow was much too small and way too tense for South Italy's peace of mind.

Russia had asked the question because as their host Russia had done most of the talking, and China agreed to the suggestion because China was their boss. The taller nation was just smiling in his sad way as Romano felt his pale eyes shifting back and forth across both halves of Italy, waiting for one of them to agree. Veneziano had been far from talkative during this meeting, but he'd been paying attention and had murmured points and questions to Romano several times already. When Romano turned a little to look at his brother where Veneziano had his gloved fingers woven around the yellow length of his pencil, he caught North Italy's angry gaze drifting across the plastic table top towards China.

Romano kicked him: stop it.

"Yes, a break please." Romano filled in the silence, watching Veneziano fidget and adjust in his seat before giving him that sour glare instead.

"Do you mind if I smoke in here, Russia?" China didn't have to ask for permission, he just wasn't an awful kind of guest when he didn't want to be. Russia and China were actually _friends_, and that made their interactions a little more harmonious.

"Not at all. I have to go fax a few things to Syria anyways."

"_Cut it out._" Romano murmured the words under his breath, ignoring the other two as they traded pleasantries and he watched Veneziano's profile closely. He was still focused on the yellow pencil in his hand, twisting it around and curling his gloved fingers repeatedly over each side. He was using his left hand at least, but Romano was more concerned with his attitude than his dexterity.

"No." Veneziano met him with a harsh look as Russia left the room whistling. His brother didn't say anything else, but they had a moment to just glare at each other.

"Is there something you'd like to say, North Italy?" China's voice made Veneziano bristle dangerously, and Romano placed a heavy hand over his brother's wrist and squeezed.

"Stop it." He didn't let him break eye contact either, watching Veneziano's lips curl back a little as he struggled with his stupid temper. "How many times do I have to tell you it's fine?"

"_It's not fine."_

"Italy."

They both looked up when China called their name, but the eastern power seemed more focused on the paper roll he was busy lighting. His hands were curled around the black body of custom stone lighter, only the light from the flame and the eventual wisps of sweet smoke giving away what he was doing with his eyes closed. As soon as the lighter went away he pulled the cigarette off his lips and breathed smoke and soft words.

"I asked you a question." The smoke curled back around his sloped nose and narrow mouth, trailing behind China's ears as he opened his black eyes through the veil of grey. Romano still wasn't sure how that calm but almost bored look on China's face was supposed to make him feel, but having it directed at Veneziano put him on edge. "Tell me what you two keep muttering about."

Romano got there first:

"It's nothing."

"Be quiet." But when China shot him down he couldn't stop Veneziano from opening his stupid mouth.

"Don't speak to him like that." _Fuck._

"Oh?" China's dark eyes brightened for a moment, lit by a curiosity that Romano would have rather seen snuffed out. When he started to smile, South Italy found his teeth clenching and his eyes boring into the dull plastic surface in front of him. "Why not? I could always be much harsher."

Don't say it, don't say it, don't-

"You've already been harsh."

"Please elaborate."

"Can we talk about something else?" Romano tried to jump back into the conversation, but Veneziano didn't even acknowledge him and China was resting his head on one hand, his other flicking ash off his cigarette into the glass tray next to him. He looked like they were having a casual chat and South Italy just wanted to crawl under the table. "Anything else."

"You've already had your fun," Romano wanted to be happy that his brother was willing to stand up and speak, especially to China of all people, but he felt more inclined to kick him again under the table or maybe flip his chair over. "What's the point of helping us if you're just going to keep taking advantage of it?" _Shut up._

"If you're both going to sit here and ignore me then it's a moot point-!" Romano gave himself points for trying, but he folded his arms and put his head down on the table to avoid having to look at the grin that was creeping across China's face. It sent an unwanted shiver down his spine when he chanced a quick look and knew that that smile was for him, not his brother.

"Would you rather I call you Veneziano or North Italy?" China's question wasn't what Romano expected.

"What?" The same thing went for Veneziano.

"I haven't asked before so I might as well now. We always referred to your brother as _'Romano'_ when you were the one attending all of the meetings and making the speeches, but now he's _'Italy'_ instead. So, which name do you prefer?" It took Romano a moment to hear the intent behind the question, but then he bristled with his forehead still connected to his arms on the table: the bastard was trying to piss Veneziano off even more by making trivial conversation.

"I…" Romano didn't have to look up, he knew that confused tone of voice was the one he only fell into from habit and not because he was actually confounded. "North. I prefer North Italy."

"Then think about it like this, North…" Romano picked his head up slowly, suspicions rising when he saw how China's grin had evened out back into a long smile. "If I'm just going to take advantage of what's offered to me, why does the offer still exist?"

"Excuse me?"

"China stop it." He didn't want to go through with this right now. He didn't want his brother and his new master to get into these kinds of sticky politics with each other, least of all when Romano was sitting right in the same room listening to them. "Veneziano I've told you a hundred times that everything's fine, now let it go."

"Don't act like you have something to hide, Italy." China's smiling voice purred through the cloud of smoke feathering off his lips. Now both of them were paying attention to him again, but it didn't make anything better. "It looks suspicious."

"Fuck you, I'm not. You're the one making it sound like-"

"Like you've been backed into a corner and that now you'll do anything I want or say if it will mean keeping your brother out of harm's way?"

Very quickly both halves of Italy were on their feet, and Romano had both hands on his brother's arms trying to block him from getting at China.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean!?"

"Veneziano sit down- I said _sit!_"

Romano'd gotten used to it by now, he wasn't surprised when Veneziano had to sit because he was physically stronger than him. In their history Romano had moved back and forth between equal and lesser, but being the stronger half was something he still adjusted to every time except right now. He didn't shove Veneziano back in his seat, but he pushed him and he made his brother _sit._

And when he heard China's soft voice chuckling behind him, Romano just wanted to turn around and carry on where Veneziano'd left off.

"How differently would everything have turned out if Germany had decided to forgive instead of forget you, Italy?" He was just standing there making sure Veneziano didn't try and jump up again, but Romano didn't know if that made it easier or harder to bear China's taunting question. "I'm not sure what he was hoping for, maybe that if the Republic separated into little pieces a new North Italy would appear?"

"Shut up, China." Romano didn't put his heart into the insult, he was too busy watching just how fast the other nation's words had made his brother calm down. He could actually see the anger draining out of Veneziano's face, ebbing from his thin lips and slowly relaxing his red eyes. He was still upset, but the fight was slowly dripping out of him.

"In every loop, we always wound up fighting each other first before getting along." Romano turned so he could see China's face, watching him tap out his cigarette with his eyes glancing across the table top at nothing, his chin sitting on one wrist casually as his voice slowly dropped. "But because we wasted all of that time someone always wound up dying before we could escape. Is that why you hid from us, Feliciano?"

"You don't have to listen to him, you're not in that place anymore." He _hated_ having this even mentioned around his brother, but Romano had to address that strange look on Veneziano's face before he could turn around and tell China to shut the fuck up and never bring the mansion or what had happened up ever again. "Veneziano look at me." He was staring past him at the wall, and China just ignored him and kept talking:

"That contract you brought from the final loop could have been the single-greatest step towards world peace in all of modern history." China's voice was low and grim. The sound of it prompted Romano to set a hand firmly on his brother's shoulder and wait for the words and the confusion to pass. "I think you remained hidden for so long because you were waiting to see who would break it first."

China was wrong: Veneziano had already agreed to come out and see the others before the rejection. They'd both known there was a chance that the EU would say no, but the only surprise had been the _way_ that-

"And as soon as Germany spat in your brother's face and told him to suffer, he came crawling to me for help instead. Germany has turned your entire continent against-"

"You've made your point, China now one more word and we'll leave."

"Where would you go?" Romano moved so he was standing next to his brother's chair, a hand still resting on Veneziano's shoulder as he looked over at the serious expression on China's round face. His fingers were woven together in front of him, elbows resting neatly on the table next to the files he'd been using during the meeting and the empty tea cup Russia's staff hadn't refilled for him.

There were only whimpering florescent lights over them to see by, no windows looking out at the grey Moscow sky. China's eyes were as black as his suit.

"Back alone to a house on the brink of revolution? Russia and I have promised to help you, but we easily could have been like Germany and refused because of something like wounded pride." Something _like_ pride.

"You just like hearing the sound of your own voice."

"I do, but that doesn't change the fact that you both answer to me now." Romano stayed up while China slowly rose to his feet, but he very quickly felt the weight of the other nation's attention bearing down on him. He sat down to keep from breaking in half from the force of China's grim frown and the way he slowly stepped around the corner of the table, black eyes watching. "This relationship can go one of two ways: either we all do what's expected so the two of you can put your house back together while I cultivate the influences I want in Europe, or you bite the hand trying to feed you and I let you starve for it, do you understand?"

"Yes…"

"I…" Romano understood the threat and he was about to say it when China sped up a little towards them. He walked smoothly and with long steps, fingertips grazing the table's plastic surface before he was standing right in front of Romano's chair. Just like one that night in the hotel room South Italy felt targeted.

"Stand up." He felt the anxiety wake up in Veneziano, but it could have just as easily been his own nervous feelings spilling over. He didn't want to obey.

But he did it, and the moment his knees straightened he realized just how close China was to him: too close.

"This is what bothers you." Too close, because even without the hand that grabbed the front of his shirt right under the collar again, China's lips practically brushed over his as he spoke. His breath tasted like that floral cigarette he'd just smoked, sweet with some kind of spice mixed in with the tabacco. Romano felt his spine bending awkwardly trying to keep away, knees bent and hands confused between holding onto the other man for balance or shoving him away. "North Italy?"

"… Let him go." China turned his head to look at where Romano's brother had choked on the words, and Romano himself had to cope with the scent of smooth aftershave and foreign cologne clinging to the cheek and throat in front of him.

"Say it nicely." It was just a fucking tactic and he was only being _used_ again, but he just held his breath and waited for China to release him.

"_Please_ let him go." Veneziano's voice fell further and further until Romano could barely hear him make the request, but then the tension went away and China took a step back. The change was clean and fast and Romano couldn't stop himself from just falling back into his chair. He didn't know why his heart was beating quite so fast, but he could feel it burning in his chest as Veneziano betrayed his worry by reaching out and holding his wrist. It was hard to listen and hear anything except China's shoes drumming slowly against the floor to carry him back around to his chair.

"You're out of time and your brother has run out of powerful friends." China was still speaking to Veneziano, Romano felt like a prop or a symbol being left aside to be observed. "He cannot _take_ you to anyone else for the help you need, North, and if he tries at this late stage then both of you will collapse with no guarantee that you, the younger, weaker, devastated brother will survive. I want to help you, but he _needs_ me to help you." The way China slid down into his seat again was smooth and it seemed like he was landing on a patterned throne, not a cheap padded chair with metal legs. Neither of them saw where he pulled the second cigarette from, but this one smelled more like industrial fumes and poisonous exhaust than of flowers or incense.

Romano hated being read so easily, and he hated wearing the collar so tightly, but he could feel Veneziano still staring at him and was even more afraid to meet that look. He could feel the anxiety and the fear, the no-that's-not-true in the nervous rubbing and squeezing on his wrist and arm, but he refused to acknowledge it.

"If everyone does what's expected of them, then everyone will benefit: we could become good friends." China's eyes almost looked like they _glowed_ when he opened them again and looked at Romano. His industrial prowess had increased so much that his body was physically taking on the characteristics and strength of his factories. He inhaled resources and breathed economic domination, and he was looking at the spoils of his empire when he eyed Romano like that. It didn't mean anything else when he handed his next words to Veneziano with a shadow of smoke teasing his lips.

"If not," if they argued with him, or they challenged him; if they did anything at all to upset or anger him… "Then I'll take exactly what I want from you, and leave the rest for the orphans and the rebels."

* * *

_September, 2013_

"_You need to speak up: we can't hear you."_

"_Rome xxxxxx- people are -xxxx rio-xxxx-ing xxx streets where- xxxxxxx fighting xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx…"_

_Somewhere in the background, under the static, a deep, muffled boom knocks out the flickering images with a flare of yellow. The screen goes black._

"_To our viewers at home: we apologize, but we seem to have lost the signal with our European correspondent stationed in Rome. We will keep you updated on the situation in Italy as it becomes available."_

"It's been a year." Quiet words spoken over a simple meal of bread and a thousand-year-old barley soup. "It ended a year ago…"

"No it hasn't." A rebuttal given quietly because the crowds on the street were chanting loudly. The conversation was something to think about, the chant was just part of the night. "And it didn't."

"It's August." Almost a question, really just a shy statement.

"I don't count from August, or September." Now that was just confusing, less-so than the blaring siren peeling through the chanting night, answering some emergency the crowds had caused in Rome. "I don't care when my brother went missing."

"You don't?" The quiet rip of dry bread pulling itself apart. They should have been drinking wine with this meal, not because it suited the soup, but because soon wine production would fall like every other industry. Instead Veneziano just watched his brother, his hands sopping up peppery broth and waiting quietly for the answer South Italy was mulling over.

"No." And Romano bought time for his reply by doing the same thing, giving a one-word answer before tasting and chewing and swallowing slowly. They were watching each other over their meal, but when the elder brother dropped his eyes over his bowl he made it look natural by reaching for more bread. "I only care about when you came back."

"So, December?" Or thereabouts, when someone had found him, when someone had brought him back home.

"No." He used such a shy, quiet voice now, letting the word fall beneath the marching footsteps pounding out in the night. Just when Veneziano thought, _"maybe he won't answer me"_, Romano took a breath and made a simple statement.

"November fourth." Now why would he…? "The day my brother came back to his people."

* * *

_November 4__th__, 2013._

"_The wide-spread violent protests across Italy over the last two months have finally managed to drive the Italian government into exile in Germany, now tell us what's happening tonight on the ground."_

"_Tonight the situation in Rome is extremely dire. These protests have been marked by torched cars, damage to public property, even several small-scale bombings and bomb-threats along the railway lines coast to coast, but tonight the crowds have lost control and people are terrified."_

"_What do you mean, lost control?"_

"_This is a grass-roots movement sponsored by the youth, but there's no one at the centre of it- no one is controlling it. The closest the public has to a figurehead is a man they're calling Il Capo, whose real name is Major Lorenzo Rossi. Major Rossi is the Military officer co-ordinating security protocols and shutting down riots in the most violent areas across the country." _

"_He's a member of the government then, a supporter?"_

"_Absolutely not: the military is the only stable governing body left at this point in Italy, and with the President's flight and the dissolution of the parliament, their chain of command is the only one still functioning. The public supports the military and Major Rossi is a big part of the reason why. This man is a-political, he does not sleep and he's declined to give an interview, but two days ago he was present with a small battalion in Naples which shut down a violent clash between pro- and anti-government supporters. Tonight I've been told he's here in Rome and has been on the scene of two devastating fires in the commercial district, providing security and support for the municipal fire fighters so they can do their jobs without influences from the crowd."_

"_Why hasn't he spoken publicly if he's such a powerful force?"_

"_Oh, he's given several impacting speeches to the crowds, and those have been broadcast within the country, he just won't speak to us. The quote I have here reads: 'I have no interest in the world at large, I fight for Italy, north and south, together.'" _

They left their house running, because that was the only way to escape the fire that caught both the building and the rioting crowd in its grasp. Romano held his brother's hand as tight as he could and ran with food, clothes, and that Swiss pistol in a bag until they reached the first major road and a nervous taxi driver watching the red glare painted over the city.

"_Go!" _He shouted, ignoring the way Veneziano tried to fight off the bag as Romano forced him into the car. "Get to the airport, fly to Geneva as fast as you can!"

"No- what about you?"

"I'm going to find Rossi-"

"_Romano don't separate us! Not now!"_ Not now when they could hear screams, not now when the chanting was so angry and the human waiting by the side of the car was fidgeting and nervously running his hands through his hair, desperate to drive away in the night. "We don't need the UN, we'll find Rossi together and work with him-"

"If you don't go and tell the world not to come near us, Veneziano, it will start a war!" Because China would want to step in like they'd planned, but then Germany and England and France would move to stop him, and Russia would throw his weight against the western powers and without a clear declaration from Italy _before_ all of that happened, the world would tumble into chaos. "You have to talk to them, and yes: it has to be you!"

They couldn't leave any room for Germany to cry corruption, there couldn't be any possibility left that someone would think South was controlling North and holding him like a puppet on a string. They had to see him, alone, standing up in front of the world and telling them in his own words to leave them and their allies on their own.

"Romano _please_…_!_" Which meant that when Veneziano clawed through the taxi window and grabbed his arm like that, when the fear started bleeding through his eyes and the hysteria tried to make a return, Romano chanced a look back over his shoulder and knew, all at once, that he had to push his brother now or they'd both fall without getting up.

"I said go!" The driver was already in the car, he'd seen the same thing as Romano and the engine rumbled loudly with the keys still chiming from where they'd been shoved in the ignition. The tires shrieked over the asphalt before they gripped it and the taxi lurched away, Veneziano shouting one more time before his face changed and the sudden distance showed him what was lurking in the chaos.

Romano took two deep breaths as the car sped away, listening to the chanting in the cold November night and the footsteps that touched the pavement behind him. He made himself stand there and wait until the taxi had sped away out of sight, and resisted the urge to pat himself down looking for anything in his pockets he could use as a weapon.

"South Italy…" He should have kept the gun. "Not a good night for people like you to go refusing a safe ride…" The voice hurt him in a way he wished it wouldn't. A voice with a rhythm like his, coming from a strong man's body born and bred to be like this, or maybe it was the other way around: maybe Italy Romano was meant to be like his people. Maybe that would explain why they seemed to hate him so much when it came to conflicts like this.

He could feel something in the air, something besides the noise and the fall of ash from the burning fires. Rome itself wasn't burning, but there was a car across the lane dripping gasoline over shattered glass. The crowds had come through this way already, the fires were coming from the post office they'd set fire to, the statue that had once stood on this street-corner toppled and defaced.

But Romano could feel something else in the almost-winter air, something above the revolution and the anger. He could feel it brush against his face and tremble in his lungs, so he breathed deeply because it was as eternal as his fighting spirit, the one he was going to clutch and hold on to until he withered away and died like empires before.

_Rain…_

"You should consider coming with us instead, it would be much safer." Their influences hurt and they burned and they made the old weight on his bones come to mind: the corruption made him feel slow and heavy just trying to get his bearings. An abandoned piece of pipe on the ground found its way under his foot, but he knew they'd shoot him before he could kick it up into his hands.

"I've spent so long chained to a desk now, I don't think I want to play safe tonight." Oh well.

A pipe was a shitty weapon, but it would serve him well enough tonight. He'd been shot before and survived just fine.

_BANG! BANG!_

"Fuck…" Even if it still hurt a lot more than he remembered. "Who's first, bastards?"

* * *

There were certain rules regarding the United Nations that applied only to their kind, not their human leaders. The first rule was attendance: if an emergency meeting was called and it was at all possible for you to arrive, you had to come. Even if your leader couldn't make it or refused to make the journey, the nation had to be present if possible.

The second rule was uniforms: no nation was permitted to wear military colours, medals, symbols, or patches on their clothing. They could not come in uniform and speak before the United Nations, and if they did so, it was to be taken as an act of aggression against the body as a whole.

"That said," that said, Germany could barely contain the anger roaring away in his ears as he was forced to sit there and listen to weak and withered North Italy make an affront to their council in full military dress. And yes, he was being aggressive: "Anyone who violates my borders without my express written permission will be treated as an insurgent and dealt with as such. This is my warning to the international community: you have been told, there will be no excuses."

United Nations Assemblies were not conducted at a round table in a meeting hall, they were hosted in one of three cities: New York, The Hague, and here in Geneva. They used the same halls as their leaders, just at different times of day or night, and again: their rules were slightly different.

"Then I formally request permission to begin sending aid residential areas affected by the fighting. I would like to focus on public safety and resource management." Of course Canada would jump up first, but Germany just needed a few more minutes to gather his rage and find the words hiding underneath it all.

"Permission granted." North Italy was standing on his own, and speaking on his own, and Germany just sat there struggling, fuming, trying to make his world make sense again. He understood everything that had happened and why things were turning out this way with gunfire and bloodshed, but he couldn't find the will to stand up and offer to help.

England did instead:

"And I request permission to begin landing ground troops immediately in conflict zones across the region: specifically to protect government officials and-"

"Denied: I have no interest in preserving the former order." The shocked silence across the hall from England said as much as the expression on his pale face. Germany felt himself stand up as Russia spoke from his seat opposite England on the security council.

"Then allow my friendly troops already stationed within your borders to offer their help and support to their military hosts." As soon as Italy agreed to the offer and accepted it, Germany's words came to him:

"You are _not_ granting more power to your military without an elected government to control them!" And he knew they were the wrong words to say, because the anger that came forth in those red eyes when Italy looked across the hall at him said more than the rage he spent to hiss back.

"That's _exactly_ what I'm doing, meddler." His sore pride over the issue made the words bite more than they should have, but the foreign experience of locking political blades with Italy made Germany lose his footing and slip back. "You walked away from my economy now stay out of my politics!"

"Your government is in Berlin where _I've_ given them-"

"_I've heard that line before, Germany!"_ It took him half a second too long to remember that that was true, and then grit his teeth for the blow that landed on him afterwards. "I didn't believe you then and I won't listen to you now! Throw them on the street for all I care: I have more important things to worry about than your worthless opinion!"

"Exactly." China cut in, still seated comfortably in his place beside Russia at the council table. Sometime over the last few months, China had moved himself into the chair in the middle of the table, the one America had always claimed but had left vacant for much too long. Only four of the five major nations were there at that table, causing a stalemate between east and west that had not existed since this hall's foundation. "Italy should be more concerned with allowing my people to help buy security for what remains of his markets so that once the dust settles there will be something to build from in the future. Is that acceptable?"

"That…"

"You're selling yourself to him!" Germany shouted, furious and overwhelmed enough that he shook off the hand Austria set on his arm. "Are you insane!? You're letting yourself fall to a dictatorship, and you're selling what's left of your independence if you-"

"Germany, we walked away!" He did not expect France's voice to jolt through him like that, but the blond nation seated at the far edge of the security panel had his eyes closed and his hands folded tightly together in front of him. When he spoke, despite his bowed head and struggling features, his voice was loud and cut through the murmur and discussion.

"We walked away, we surrendered our responsibilities: that is done and now this is just beginning." It felt so much like a betrayal that Germany had to control himself again, because logically he knew and he understood that France was taking the path of reason. It just _hurt._ "Which is why by the end of this week my government will renounce its support for the so-called President in Exile living in Berlin: the former government was expelled by public revolt and renounced by their nation here before a council of peers, the issue is settled." Which meant that if Germany took the path of least resistance: he would have to explain the prickly issue to his boss tomorrow, and then try to disenfranchise the Italian party he'd offered sanctuary to.

He did not like _losing._ He did not like going back on his word.

He did not like losing to _China_ of all nations, because that was who everyone could see smiling at the head of the assembly.

"A question for North Italy," He was smiling and he was far too smug. For all the problems between them now and the anger that bordered on hate, Germany could still watch and see the way North Italy stiffened up so rigidly when China addressed him. "While you're here settling these issues with us, what is South Italy doing in the meantime?"

"My brother is continuing efforts to sustain and direct the revolution, and I wish to join him again as soon as possible." There was something he didn't say in that admission, something that Italy, no matter who he was becoming or what he'd endured, would always do when he hid something and didn't want to say what it was. He would always flex his tongue behind his teeth like he was going to swallow or speak, but end up doing neither, and it always meant that there was something else he wouldn't admit to.

Something was happening beyond those borders and he wouldn't say what it was. Something that changed China's smile and caused the eastern nation to tilt his head just-so, a display of power that should not have worked so well in front of this many other nations, but it did.

Italy sat down instead of offering more information or taking further questions. Instead of standing there and delivering a final speech or doing something to show that his power or stature might have been returning, North Italy's swan song as a free nation was to buckle in front of China, and cough revolutionary blood behind his hand as the meeting wound down to a close.

It felt like the way the free world should end: not with a bang but a whimper.

* * *

**That… felt both like a little and a lot at the same time. There's a headcanon here I might need to explain? I'm pretty convinced in-universe that any time in history, specifically in the modern era and on, whenever countries made weird decisions about getting/not getting involved in conflicts around them was because the nation-tans made a decision like this. It's a little dehumanizing, but I like it? Expanding the headcanon properly just ran out of space, because I'm literally exhausted just from proof-reading all 21 pages of this.**

**Next chapter: FINAL CHAPTER.**

**Please leave a comment below! Favourite segment? Hope for next chapter? Anything at all, I'd love to hear it!**


	40. Elysium

**To Love's End, Soldiers (Piano ver), Mind Heist: Evolution, KRWLING, Iris, All Faith Is Lost. Dirty Little Secret, Decision of the Loved, Missing Remix, Missing, End Of My Journey, The Colonel, Vanity, Secret Door, Good Enough, Elysium, Honor Him, Now We Are Free, Safe And Sound, Utopia, I Need a Doctor, Good Enough (Felicity), Ezio's Theme.  
**

* * *

_**Recovery**_

Elysium

_Winter, 2014._

It took a year.

It took a year of wild fighting in the streets, the near-collapse of the national bank, and international responses that wavered between staggeringly ineffective and desperately needed.

The fighting tore off the gauze and bandages of the bureaucracy, exposing the festering welts and black death of corruption. United Nations teams headed by Canadians, supplied by Russians, and manned by the Chinese flooded into major cities with guns and supplies. Many of those teams were assaulted and some sank in the mire of blood money, but most were welcomed and protected. Canada personally discharged and arrested any of his own who carried the stink of corruption on his uniform, and China executed at least three for giving in to their greed.

North and South Italy went a step further: with the military swollen with new recruits brought in by drafts and conscription, anyone with suspicions or ties to those black-hearted groups was more than executed, they were erased.

Files were burnt, numbers erased, bodies buried under new roads commissioned by the Captain.

Families were sent simple declarations of death, but God help them if the State had any reason to believe the webs of corruption had spawned from inside filial walls. If a father had encouraged a son, or if a mother enabled the spread, then the State went after the cancer with electric shocks and black bags.

Personal Liberties were casualties in a war for survival. After a year it stopped being about fighting for a strong government. After twelve months of fighting and back-stabbing and fear, it became about killing the clans.

It was about fighting for people to have the right to work. Fighting for those who worked to have the right to wages. Fighting for the right to a safe neighbourhood, a safe school- or even just a neighbourhood or a school to begin with. No more living in the rubble of a calamity two years gone, no more stepping over black chasms carved down city streets while listening to men in black suits snicker from the sides of expensive cars.

Their Captain took control of the military, he took control of Rome. He took the young men into the army and he told them "work", and they worked, because most of them wanted to and all of them had to. He took the women too, he took them and he did not give them guns like the men, not hammers or slabs of concrete: but graphs and paper, goals and deadlines. Their Captain took the youth of Italy and he made them work to cut away the death and stitch and heal what remained.

And it _hurt._

_BANG._

"Uh-"

It hurt, and it _hurt_, and if it wasn't the pain of reconstruction, that sting before the relief of progress-

_BANG. BANG BANG!_

_-_then it was the filial pain of watching his other half _suffer_.

_**BANG, BANG, BANG!**_

"They're not going to open the-"

"_LET ME OUT!"_

Because as much as Italy Veneziano felt himself suffering through reconstruction, Italy Romano was the one writhing from the corruption. So if one stupid mistake one night had put Veneziano in this latest mess then he was not going to _stand for it. _

Not down here: not in the dark somewhere below Rome, not waiting calmly while Mafia Henchmen tried to organize his transfer down south_._ They knew who and what he was, but they had no idea _what_ he was.

_**BANG. **_

Did they know what North Italy could do? Apparently not, because he'd already snapped their damn restraints.

_**BANG. **_

And if whoever was trapped on the other side of the steel door didn't know who their cell-mate was, then the dents marring the old metal would teach him soon enough.

_**BANG.**_

Because with one more driving punch with his left arm, knuckles bleeding and flecked with rust, North Italy brought up one leg and-

_**BOOM!**_

"_Holy shit!"_

"_Shoot him!"_

He was in a basement, a warehouse, a place with concrete walls and poor light- but not poor enough to blind him. He saw men running at him and he knew, _he knew_ that there would be guns.

But guns couldn't hurt him anymore, not with a strong master in Rome to keep his heart beating, not with another half who needed him _home_ and not down in the murk killing _rats_ trying to get out of here.

Mafia were not people anymore. Mafia were not citizens, not Italians, not his or Romano's or anyone else's. Veneziano had signed the paperwork and he'd ceded those rights to value and protect them. They were exempt from the laws and because they could claim no citizenship elsewhere: they were no one. They didn't exist, they were only here to destroy and be destroyed. Italy abandoned what was never theirs and recognized them now only as another threat: another _invasion_.

They'd taken his weapons when they caught him in the dark between Rome and Milan, killing his entourage in the process. They'd torn and stained his uniform with the fighting to drag him down here, but when a bullet cracked the wall by his head Veneziano crouched and threw his weight forward, ready to fight again and this time win his freedom.

His boots bit into the rough floor as his right hand reached for the closest gun-bearing arm, speed taking the thug by surprise so instead of putting a bullet through the Nation's eye, he staggered back and forgot to fire. He snagged the henchman's wrist in the dark and pulled, turning his body so the human collided with his shoulder, and then with both feet planted he flung all of his weight back until he slammed the fragile body against the concrete wall. The crunch of bones behind him and the strangled noise told him how much damage he'd done, and he felt no guilt wrenching the gun free as he let the human collapse boneless and broken to the ground.

One bullet killed the second human who came at him, the third henchman shot him through the chest and then ran for his life when the blow didn't make him fall.

He killed that one too, ignoring the heat running down his back and making his shirt stick to his skin as a double-tap seared through the human's body and made him crumble to the floor with a sick gasp.

It had taken them a year to drive the violence back down under the streets like this so the people above could try to work and sleep under the illusion of peace. North Italy was not a chess piece to be won and locked in a cell while one side or the other declared '_this is ours now! We win!'_

He was the State. And when he released the other prisoner and climbed up into cold Roman sunlight again, he took driver's licences, credit cards, and anything else from three bodies that would blacklist their names and send the raiding parties in the night to erase progeny and partners.

He was _the State._

* * *

_Spring, 2015._

Time was a strange phenomenon. Germany did not enjoy dwelling on the issue of months and years on a personal level, but sometimes it just crept up on him.

Three years ago he and Italy had been best friends, maybe even danced together on the cusp of something more.

Today he had done everything to distract himself from the media's image of the French President shaking hands with the Italian Dictator.

Dictator.

Although Italy and his press would both deny it: an unelected leader with all the strength of a burgeoning army at his back. The limits on his power were vague and no earnest cry for democracy could be heard from within the former Republic.

The man had not changed Italy's name yet, but Germany did not doubt that his will would shift soon enough.

"At least eat something." But for the time being the entire issue left Germany without the appetite Austria insisted he should have. It was hard with so much going on in his mind and under what was supposed to be _his_ sphere of influence, for Germany to remind himself why of all places he'd fled to Vienna for a day away from sour politics. Why put himself closer to the problem? "As unsavoury as France's decision is, you know it's for the better."

Germany didn't want to hear about it. He didn't want to discuss France's policies or his ability to smile at the man who in ten years would be a tyrant in Rome like so many emperors before him. France wanted to take the reins of the EU? He wanted to stand up and tell the world to sit down while he made sense of all their misguided, sordid little issues? Let him.

"Tense friendships benefit everyone more than cold distrust ever would, Germany. This is Europe's way." Tolerance for corruption and a _c'est la vie _attitude towards watching history repeat itself. Yes, that was exactly Europe's way.

"It's not friendship." He finally made himself say, slowly standing up in the classically inspired dining room and making his way over to the tall clear windows letting the dusk light shine in on the two nations. He knew his next words would be bitter: "It's appeasement."

"_Germany-_"

"I would know!" He stated harshly, meeting Austria's disapproving look with a fierce refusal to stand down. "And somehow you can just sit here in Vienna as if there isn't a military crisis building itself up along your southern border."

"I am not Italy's concern." Of all the irresponsible ways to cast aside the issue- "I'm not saying you're _wrong_, Germany, but do not pretend the Italian Army has any interest in my affairs. No Man's Land stretches on their side of the border, not mine." The way Austria said it meant he _had_ to know how the words sounded to Germany, the memories they evoked of a wall too high to climb and too politically strong to pull down.

How was he supposed to accept knowing Russia kept company in Rome the way he once had in Berlin? While France was kindly, Russia made a point of standing or sitting directly beside the Italian brothers at every conference and meeting. And with Russia came someone even worse…

"Germany-" Because how was he supposed to welcome China into discussions and meetings that had never included him before? European matters that should have had no bearing on the far east! "Germany listen to me, as delicate as matters are you must see reason!"

"Reason where?" Curse the rest of them for not taking the issue seriously. Curse Germany for not being able to put the issue down.

"If not reason, then logic." Austria was still sitting there at the dinner table, the remains of their meal waiting to be whisked away while coffee was prepared and set out with cake in the other room. Germany did not feel like following the motions of evening coffee and dessert, he just wanted to know what made Austria think issues like these could be settled with a few brief words. "You and France are politically and economically joined at the hip now, and as I said: soothing relations with that military state growing in the south will preserve peace in the region. By having France extend that olive branch to Italy on Europe's behalf, he's spared you from having to do it yourself."

"That still justifies nothing," he hissed, watching the older nation sit there and dab at his lips with his napkin.

When he opened his blue eyes again to speak, Germany didn't expect what came out:

"Well, Germany, what in God's name did you _expect_ would happen?" The harsh way Austria sneered at him startled them both, but it didn't keep the former Empire quiet for long. "Two years ago you had the chance to be a friend to Italy, and you squandered it for reasons none of us have been able to validate since."

Germany didn't want to discuss it.

"Romano walked out of that meeting, I-"

"After the way you spoke to him? He would have had every right to throw you out of Rome for it." That issue was still between him and South Italy, if Romano couldn't own up to simple- "I was there, Germany, _I heard you!_"

And maybe that was why Germany didn't want to talk about it. Maybe it had taken him this long just to realize that being right hadn't made him_ right_, and maybe even after having another two years to come to grips with that information, Germany still hadn't found a way to overcome it… That was why he simply couldn't stand to talk about it.

And maybe, in his own way, Austria understood that when his anger slowly melded into something like disappointment. A heavy weight settled on Germany's chest when he realized it, but that didn't stop Austria from insisting on pushing through with the matter.

"What on _earth_ did you expect Italy to do after you forced him out of the EU like that?" If only Austria and all the nations standing behind him could just let Germany lick his wounds in peace. It didn't matter that it was only the two of them in the room right now, Germany could still feel the rest of the world acting through Austria to grill him again, to shame him the way cold logic and clear hindsight demanded he take the blame…

"I don't know." Maybe he just hadn't expected South Italy to walk away. Maybe he'd forgotten that Romano had no qualms with switching sides in a conflict. Germany could even convince himself that maybe he'd believed enough western propaganda that declared anarchy better than a fall to the eastern powers.

Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't thought Italian pride would let Romano submit himself to China the way he had.

"I understand how delicate the issue is for you." Delicate? No. Once maybe, but nearly three years of conflict had covered the raw wound with a sturdy callous. "But if we're to make any progress in bringing east and west back to a stable, sustainable balance, then you have _got_ to admit to yourself and everyone else that penalizing South Italy for things that were never his fault was-"

"You don't know that."

He didn't like the sound of his own voice, Germany didn't want to acknowledge that tremble in his pitch as his voice climbed higher than it should have.

"Germany…"

"None of us know what really went on between them, Austria," and the stories other nations had brought to him carried no comfort. Hungary's insult, Switzerland's reservations, Liechtenstein's refusal to weep… "From how you've told me he was to the way he his now, don't tell me Romano had no hand in that." Where had the soldier come from the ruins of the victim? How had someone rendered mute from trauma become so violently callous?

"Whatever South Italy did, you cannot hold it against him like this, not if you want to move forward." But did Germany even…? "There are problems all over, Germany, problems which _need_ your attention because you _can _help them. Hungary is suffering and America is still silent out west. Every inch you give up fighting emotionally with Italy will be taken up by someone else behind your back, so please, see reason." Reason…

Such a virtue, did Germany even deserve it?

"Tell me the truth, Roderich…" He almost refused to say the name, the name he'd been allowed to hear only in the days following the Italian Republic's formal collapse. "Did I betray my best friend by trying to defend him?"

Austria had remained seated this whole time, hardly moving while his hands remained at rest on the polished wooden arms of his chair. His dining room was a lovely chamber, tall windows of sparkling glass calling the faded sunlight in to warm empty china plates, glittering over crystal stems and fluted wine glasses.

"Betrayal is difficult between our kind." How had Austria kept such a youthful face for so long? Here Germany stood several centuries his junior, and yet the older nation sat there with a face barely approaching thirty. "But you have been selfish, and it is difficult to forgive such cruelty."

"Do you think he ever will?" Forgive him, that is…

"In time I think Italy will put his anger and suspicions to rest." Germany nearly took relief from those words, but Austria tricked him. "But Veneziano will take longer." Because North Italy was no longer the world's Italy, just like how Germany could feel himself sliding into France's shadow as the face of European power…

"If France… and Italy… can build a friendship between east and west…" One without Germany's hands in it, one where Germany barely even had to be aware of the relationship and get involved between them…

"Then that friendship will maintain peace in our hemisphere." And peace was worth more than anything, economic or otherwise.

But that didn't stop Ludwig's heart from breaking a little bit more as Germany reached for the windowsill and looked out into the fading light of day, almost wishing for the brilliance to blind him before night could be fall. He didn't want to see the new world that the sun would rise up over tomorrow.

"Then let there be peace." Because Germany could not fight this fight any longer.

* * *

_Summer, 2020._

"No, no see I have to stop you right there." As soon as Philip Westwood, Presidential Candidate for the American Republican Party opened his mouth, he knew he would never be invited back onto this program, maybe not even this network, ever again.

"You see now you're equating Tea-Party politics with Republican politics, and that's where I have to draw a line." He deviated from the script, he ignored the cues from the host who had just been speaking carelessly into the camera, and with one hand still raised he started speaking. "I am a Republican. I am a proud member of the Republican Party and have been since as long as I can remember, but do not try and tarnish fifty-percent of the good, hard-working people in this country with the politics of the erratic and out-of-touch."

The host was going to strangle him, he could see the comedian choking on his disbelief.

His campaign manager just off-set was either going to hug him and cheer, or stab him in the throat.

But the studio audience was paying attention, and frankly their votes just mattered more to him.

"Both the Republican and Democrat Parties here in America are founded on the same core principles of community, democracy, and brotherhood- to which I may add sisterhood, because this country would not be what it is today without the Founding Mothers or the women working alongside the men to make this nation a beautiful place to live." Someone back at the head office was going to throw a fit about _'pandering to the feminists'_, but it was the 21st century and some people needed to stop acting like acknowledging half the country's population was in any way _'pandering'_.

"We are all neighbours, we are all Americans. It's about time we had the kind of leadership in Washington that will stop picking apart the differences between the Right and Left wings, and focus on the fact that those wings are what keep our society flying high regardless of our internal strife and bickering." Because there was strife, and there was pain, and there was everything wrong when factories in small towns shut their doors for the final time, or when families went bankrupt trying to save the lives of children gunned down by fate.

Or thrown down on the tracks of a crippled bureaucracy…

"I want to bring that kind of leadership to America. There's always a lot of talk about appeasing big business and supporting the corporations, but do you know what will happen to those power-house companies if people can't afford to buy the bread and butter they've monopolized and sell?" It was a heavily worded question, and he felt his voice drop the way he'd been drilled by his campaign manager _not to let it fall_, but he was looking at the in-studio audience for his answer. He was looking at them, and then he looked through the lens of the camera closest to him, hoping he hadn't been pushed onto a commercial slot to stop him from kicking sand in the face of the one-percent.

"Without the American people, the American corporations will starve. Colleagues I've had for years want to move their investments into China, but lowering production costs with sweat and slavery isn't going to fix the problems here at home. I want to bring corporate reforms, I want to bring tax reforms, I want to bring health and safety reforms. I want to re-form America so that we can break the chains of social poverty and take back our place in the world as innovative and inspirational leaders." He wanted safe streets for American children and hospital beds for the American ill, jobs for the American workers and education for the American youth…

He wanted back all the things that had been taken from a young man he had once known. He wanted to give America everything he hadn't been able to promise that same young man on a black and blustery May night…

He wanted it, and he was running for it, and if Philip Westwood, Presidential Candidate for the American Republican Party had his way, then he would take those things back for America. He would win those things back for Alfred… He would.

And he did.

Twice.

* * *

_Autumn, 2023._

"But are you sure you're okay with this plan?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

Rome had changed over the last ten years. The city had toughened up and now the people walked at a faster, harsher pace with their laughter turned down. Life moved with determination while the sun's glare shone harsh and white over the past's archaic glory.

It was still Rome, complete and undeniable, but it was hard to step onto the city streets and remember that Rome was the heart of _Italy_.

Canada was unwilling to admit it, maybe even beginning to feel worried or afraid, but borders within Italy were beginning to mean less and less. The earthquake years ago had forced so many people, north and south, to move and trade places that not everyone had even made the effort to go back home once the trauma began to heal.

Physical mobility across the peninsula had never been an issue, and now with the quake several years gone and nearly all of Italy's rail lines and major road-ways back in place, it was once again a moot point. What had changed was the culture: the culture of remaining bound forever in one place, because that was where parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had called home.

"Wake up, will you?"

Canada's thoughts were only a problem when faced with the reality that was Italy himself: Italy Romano embodied more of the new state than anyone else in their company was ever willingly going to admit. Italy Veneziano was reducing himself to a facet, a shade, a dimension of Italy, but his brother was taking on the whole.

"Sorry," and he was, because Italy's time wasn't meant to be wasted. The stress alone on his dry face told Canada to mind himself a bit more carefully. "I just want to make sure I'm not overstepping my bounds with this idea."

Italy just huffed at him from across the table they were sitting at, the roadside café in Rome looking out at crowds of not-enough tourists and just-enough suits and ties to say there was work being done in tall buildings behind glass walls. Italy himself was rough around the edges of his starched and pressed blue uniform, general stars on his collar and a pistol strapped to his hip.

He was balancing a cigarette between his thin lips, the white roll unlit in Canada's presence because he was polite enough not to smoke right in front of him. Their powers weren't equal in a point-for-point kind of way, but the two of them matched up evenly enough that they were better off just being friendly, not trying to tally the marks. Despite his political ties Canada was still an honest democracy, and Italy was not.

"You're not overstepping anything." Italy was a military state doing what military states did best: cutting down on crime, slashing unemployment, rebuilding infrastructure, and never even trying to apologize for the lack of elections along the way. "My boss doesn't have much money to put towards cultural projects, but whatever I can scrounge up is yours to put towards this. I can give you names of institutes and leaders who would be good to have on-hand as well." So somewhere between his words, Canada felt the quiet sting of a problem.

"Would you let me bring your brother on board?" He had to try and reach out though, even if Canada knew the wall would be too high for him to scale alone. "I'd like him to be part of this."

"I'm not surprised that you'd say that, but it's impossible." He just wished Italy wouldn't make himself smile like that when he said it, his expression just paper folded and wrapped over the barrel of a gun pointed at their friendship. "If Veneziano finds out what you're planning, he'll shut it down immediately."

"But you won't?"

"If he finds out, then yes. If he doesn't, then no." That didn't make any sense. "The important thing, Canada, is that I agree with you: this needs to happen. This should have happened years ago."

"Then why hasn't it started yet? Why did you need me to approach you like this?" And why did Canada know he was going to be left in charge of this new project?

Italy just picked up the coffee he'd ordered and sipped from the hot ceramic edge, and Canada forced himself to do the same with his own drink. It was a stale silence.

"I know what people whisper about behind my back, Canada." The smile Italy put on wasn't threatening, but he could sense the glaze of irony that fell over the words and heard the paper crinkle when he spoke. That masking smile refused to reach his tired green eyes. "That Veneziano is less than a nation and more like a force I just keep in my pocket and bring out to harass the world with at meetings, but I don't control him." Canada chose to believe him. Their friendship depended on Canada at least trying to have faith in what Italy said. "And I have no say over what happens in Venice. His heart won't heal until his city is finally put back together, but even I need his permission before I can so much as step within the city limits."

"So I'm supposed to invest all of this time and money and engineering into a project I have to keep _secret_ from the territory himself?" Canada knew he was twisting his own words a little bit. He was _offering_ to do all of this, but that still didn't make hiding everything a restriction he was happy about! "What do I do if he finds out? What if he just stops by the site one day and sees what we're doing?"

"Then you'll call me in and hope I can calm him down before he does any serious or lasting damage, and you accept that unless I can convince him that you've made enough progress to keep going, your work will end there." This agreement almost felt illicit. Sneaking around behind the back of someone who was so unstable, changing things that _needed_ to be changed, but would hurt so much if they were discovered too soon… "But—"

Canada looked up from where his gaze had drifted across the sunny streets and a taxi idling outside the tall glass body of a bank. A man in a strapping blue suit was hustling over the pavement to welcome a pair of Chinese businessmen from Asia…

Italy hadn't noticed the businessmen, they weren't important, he was staring at nothing while pinching the end of his cigarette between his lips. Canada waited for the words he was trying to find.

"In all honesty, Canada..." The words didn't look like they were painful for him, but the realization they brought seemed to be more than Italy could handle all at once. "In five years, I don't think my brother has so much as set foot in Venice. The chances of him discovering you there… they don't exist, not anymore."

For some reason, Canada didn't think he would have believed the literal meaning of those words if they hadn't been uttered in such a slow, unsteady voice…

"…Is that why I have your secret permission to do this?" Italy took an uncomfortable breath and finally took the cigarette out of his mouth, shifting in his seat before biting one lip and answering bluntly.

"It's why you have my sincere request that you do this." And that pledge, somehow, was something Canada felt compelled to believe.

"And if I choose to bring France into things?" France who held a prized position clearly on the Western side of the international debate, but still close enough to centre that Canada could reach out and speak to him. France was someone Italy might not have regularly invited to Rome, but who still tended to show up from time to time with limited notice and no apologies for coming so suddenly.

Sometimes, back home in Ottawa, it felt easier to trust France than Italy. And maybe here in Rome it felt easier to trust France instead of Canada.

"I would welcome him." France was just… safe. "Just keep him quiet."

Canada almost laughed into his next sip of coffee.

"Easier said than done."

* * *

_Winter, 2027._

"_What do you think of that Westwood person?"_

England knew he had asked Canada that question so many times in the last seven years- it probably didn't even make sense in his head anymore. It was just a way of filling the silence around that one forbidden aspect of their life and politics together.

It was hard to visit Canada, and it had been that way for nearly ten years now. With what historians and archivists already widely referred to as America's "darkening" in the middle of the 2010's, Canada had, like Japan and many other nations, been forced to sever economic bonds with America and find political and financial support elsewhere. The suppliers needed demanders, and nowhere greater was the demand than in China.

India too though, and maybe that was why England was still able to visit Canada on occasion- at India's dinner table, not China's. His former colonies were friendly with each other, and Canada was too fond of trade with Australia and New Zealand and England himself to leave the Commonwealth. It showed how sturdy he really was that, even with pressure China had not even bothered to hide trying to force Canada to give up those connections, the younger state had refused. He had the strength to refuse, because he had the Commonwealth's support to catch him if he needed to make that leap.

But the same support worked the other way as well: China and Russia would catch Canada if England tried to push and bully his way into Ottawa and tell him "don't do this, don't sell to them, don't trade with him". He had to simply let the other nation be.

England could not try influencing China through Canada.

England could just eat his different curries and drink his tea with Canada discussing consumer projects and energy agreements with India, who was more than thrilled to swap automotive designs for licencing packages. He could just sit and observe, wondering silently at how Canada had inherited from France an ability that England himself somehow lacked.

That ability was the skill to stand firmly on the line between two opposite worlds, that meeting of currents where fresh democracy met saline dictatorship.

Because Canada's closest friends were China, a power who had indeed opened up more freedoms to his people over the last twenty years, but how many restrictions still muzzled them? Where was the opposition in China's One Party? Russia was a democracy who couldn't hold an election without a riot although he'd smile his way through all of it. Russia's sister Belarus was no better than the Italian brothers…

Canada could eat dinner with India and then fly to Iran for a weekend of hard diplomatic talks. It had been a reality-check for England the day Canada had announced he was abandoning America's embargo on the Islamic state in order to join the economic plan proposed by China and Russia- two countries who had never acknowledged the ban to begin with.

He was so like France: that quiet, confident presence across the English Channel who had calmly tucked Germany behind him after the repeated disasters of the century's second decade. France was the only western state who could simply knock on Italy's door and invite himself in past the militant guards, and the only person England could think of who could request and win himself an appointment alone with North Italy on the first try.

But England wasn't anywhere near Europe right now, least of all France. He was walking next to Canada in a heavy wool coat, umbrella on hand and tapping the flagstones at his feet, the two of them taking slow, meandering steps in the crowd of officials following several yards behind the King of England and the Canadian Prime Minister.

"What do you think of that Westwood fellow?" And he asked the same question he had for the last seven years, the tired old words moving slowly down a well-trodden path that would take them along the safe road to a peaceful conversation.

"I think he's done a lot for America."

Canada smiled when he said the words, a wistful kind of reaction to a topic he was usually melancholy about. England was curious.

"With the reforms he's brought in recently, or do you mean…?"

"I mean," Canada was walking slowly, not unusual for him but he was making a point of letting each step come up a bit shorter than normal. Most of the time England had to pick up the pace a little to keep up with the taller nation, now he found himself moving easily in time with Canada's steps as their progression made its way up towards the Canadian Parliamentary buildings. "He's done a lot for _America._"

England didn't let his mind take those words too literally. Glancing up at the head of the progression, the King and Prime Minister were there shaking the hands of Veterans who'd served in the Italian Revolution and several other peace-keeping missions of the 21st century in former Soviet territories. Canada had kept himself busy.

But up at the head of that train was one other foreign leader, and this man wasn't part of the Commonwealth and he didn't represent the bond between England and his former Imperial might. The American President had been invited and welcomed to Ottawa, and in an uncharacteristic bout of humility from the White House, he'd kept himself one step behind the British Monarch for the entire procession, speaking amiably with the Canadian Prime Minister without causing a fuss of any kind.

Westwood: that mis-guided human from decades before with a security badge and no idea what he'd wandered into. England only knew it was the same man because that man knew _him_, and when he'd won his first election he'd come back to their meeting hall and he'd introduced himself again as the American President.

He'd known England was England.

He'd known Canada was Canada.

He'd known the Italian brothers- South _and_ North.

He'd _apologized_ for over a decade of misbehaviour and undue criticism from Washington.

And now seven years later the first President England could say he'd actually liked in almost three decades was running out of time to lead his nation. It didn't matter that he was a tall and very plain looking man with dark hair and green eyes in a round and washed out face, looks didn't count for as much as the media still wanted to think: he wasn't out because he wasn't handsome. President Westwood was getting ready to step down because America had been so obsessed with keeping kings off their thrones that he'd tied the hands of the good, qualified men to lead him and saddled them with an eight year restriction. But of course, in seven years England still hadn't seen America face-to-face… In ten years for that matter… twenty…

"I spoke to him about today."

"Westwood?" Canada smiled softly in his way, eyes down and his blond bangs hanging free of the soft red ribbon he'd used to tie it back today. He looked like he had something to say, but he wouldn't just come out with it until England felt himself growing annoyed. "Who, Canada?"

"America."

England stopped walking. That had been a cruel and unnecessary comment for him to make, and England couldn't tell if he was serious or not about it.

"What did he say?" But he humoured the Canadian, because the alternative was mockery.

"He said he'd be here."

"Well then he lied." The first thing England had heard definitively of America in over twenty years was a lie. Good job, Alfred.

"I don't think so." Now if Canada would only cease then England could get on with his walk and his day: they were nearly at the doors to Parliament and once they were properly inside and seated in the House of Commons they'd have more than enough administrative and ceremonial work to occupy them. "Look over at the President."

England looked. He saw the President's stooped shoulders and his poorly aging body: he was thick from mid-life and too much travel. His dark hair was beginning to fall away and the man's pale face was riddled with lines around the eyes and mouth. Twenty years was a long time for humans.

"I don't see anything special." Just an old American, hardly something worth noticing.

"Look at the person behind him."

Blast it all everyone except the King and Prime Minister were behind him! But England looked again: a woman with red hair knotted behind her head, an older member of the armed forces, the Crown Prince and his mother the Queen, a young man with dark brown hair and a bronze complexion…

"If we're going to play games you could at least tell me the rules." England was still watching when he noticed the change he was meant to see. It shut him up and it stopped Canada from saying anything to goad him, because as they reached the stone doorway one person broke away from the procession: that young man.

Dark brown or black: either colour worked to describe his hair and the way it was combed back, thick and coarse and simultaneously in and out of style with current trends in America. His skin was so dark he might have been Hispanic, or Native American, and just in general the dark grey suit he was wearing didn't seem to match the rest of him.

On approach England realized how tall he was, nearly a match for Canada and not as scrawny as his discomfort in the suit might have suggested. He looked strong, but somehow much too young to be here with people like this. His features were alien to England: he didn't know that mouth with a full bottom lip hiding a thinner top one, his nose long without being too long, rounded gently and not squashed against his face. But there was something about the eyes. They weren't the right colour, but… the… shape…

"No…" He'd changed his face- he'd changed his face, or he really had died and vanished from the world just to be replaced by- "Who is that-?"

"It's _him._" Canada was there to catch England by the arm when he felt himself turning away, his former colony snagging and holding him close in a way that was almost restricting, but at the same time felt like it was trying to give comfort along with the support. One arm came around his back, the other hand sliding down to hold his wrist. "It's him, Arthur."

"That can't be him, it's-" The boy by the wall was fidgeting, looking down at his shoes and up at the building over him, but then those blue eyes- blue like the prairie skies and the cornflower rows he'd once planted, blue and wide because curiosity always manifested through the eyes and souls as strange as theirs' needed windows wide and shimmering with light to see through.

And when those eyes landed squarely on England and Canada because the seer _knew_ they were there-

"_Oh god…"_

-England felt it, and he stopped pushing back on Canada's arms. He stopped, then he stumbled, then he started moving forward as quickly as he could through the crowd. He heard Canada following him but he didn't slow down, because he felt like if he stopped again he'd look up and that person would be gone again: America would vanish from sight _all over again._

"You idiot!" He didn't know what else to say, he just needed that stupid child with those scuffling feet and nervous face to know he was coming. "What have you done? Where the hell did you go? Did you seriously think in an information age like this that you could simply-?"

"Englan-?"

England didn't finish what he'd been saying, his voice snapped that head around again and brought his name out past unfamiliar lips. The voice was almost the voice it was supposed to be, it was so damn close- England just wanted to hear it again but more than that he needed to make sure the speaker couldn't get away.

So England grabbed him by the shoulders and he yanked him over, making sure the Nation at equal height with him was made to stumble before England locked both arms around that back and up over his shoulders, grasping at thick, refined wool and pulling that warmth tight and close against him. And he didn't let go: he refused to let go. Not again.

"Where did you go?" Was he crying? God, don't let him cry. He closed his eyes tight because he could feel them itching, his voice falling because this couldn't be real- but it had to be real. "We thought you were _dead_; that your pieces would start to break apart and the fighting would just get worse. Where the _hell_ did you go?" Was it him though? Was it really him with a different face and a frightened, anxious body?

The way those arms wound their way under his and squeezed tightly under his chest, said yes. And the rib-cracking strength of an over-funded military cause a breed of pain that didn't burn hot enough to make England let go. It wasn't the frightened embrace of a new state seeking acknowledgement either, England could feel the desperation that mirrored his own and repeated the same words over and over again to both of them: don't let go.

"I missed you…_"_ It really was his voice. The accent was different- his lands and people were so varied that he'd adopted the speech of another region. But it was his _voice_. "I'm _sorry_…"

"What happened?" Oh god it was him, it was _him_ and any moment now England was going to wake up cold and alone in London because he was holding someone who should have been gone forever. "Where did you _go?"_

"I'm so sorry, England…" Maybe they were both fighting tears, because that voice dropped so low and fell so softy against his shoulder that there was no other explanation. With Canada hovering so close and blocking them from the proceeding crowd he must have known they both needed this moment too. "Everything was so wrong and I just had to fix it…"

"Why didn't you _say_ anything?" Anything at all, anything that would have at least let them _know_ what was wrong. Said something so that even if he couldn't ask for help, they'd still have known he was alive and working on it. Why had he scared everyone like this?

Why had he scared Arthur like this?

"I couldn't- I just couldn't…"

They let go slowly, or at least moved back: England still didn't want to let go and he kept his hands on this young man's sleeves, fingers wrapped around his elbows and watching as their faces pulled back. He closed his eyes and that strange face with its different features revealed again the soul of someone England had lost a long time ago.

Just the way his eyes creased when he squeezed them shut, the pain behind locked behind teeth that set themselves the way they always had with new lips drawing themselves into thin, trembling lines. The tears took the same paths down straight cheeks, brown hair flopping free of relentless combing and dropping just the way it was meant to.

And America cried, and it was still his voice and his staggered breaths, twenty years apart not enough to shake centuries' worth of memories from England's heart.

"You fool…"

"_I'm sorry!_" He sobbed the words out and England brought a hand up to hold one flushed cheek, trying to hush him as his voice rose too high in the dwindling crowd of onlookers. But instead of calming down America just looked up at him through stressed, weeping grey eyes; his words came prying open his jaws and falling to the pavement like raindrops. "I'm sorry for the loops- I'm sorry I wouldn't listen, I'm s-sorry for blaming you and then that time I barged into your house like that-"

"America-"

"I'm sorry I said all that shit!" He shouted, and England believed him. "And I'm sorry I didn't listen and you had to hurt yourself to protect me and it hurt you- And I'm sorry I didn't stay in the hospital to see you!" England could barely even remember that far back to tell him not to- "And I'm sorry! I was angry- I was so mad I drove myself insane, and I-"

"And I forgive you!" Even if the sincerity of his words hadn't won England over, he knew the proof on America's face would have done it for him. It took something of… almost cataclysmic force to change a Nation's face like that. Trauma was almost exclusively portrayed through age with their kinds, but sometimes that wasn't good enough.

England had never gained back the weight and muscle-tone he'd lost after World War Two. Prussia's body had never been quite so pale and plain before he had lost his hold in the world. Italy looked so weather worn and sun-dried now it was like there was nothing but hardness and leather under his skin.

Habits always suffered first, their height and weight came next, but physical features: their skin, their hair, everything that made the person in the mirror the same as the one looking at the glass… England had seen it once, but that had been a long time ago.

"I believe you…" He said softly, almost whispering the words as he held America's face with both hands now, trying to calm him down as he felt Canada's arm slip around his back again like before. The former colony was standing beside them now, head down so he helped close the gap between them and the cold November air… "I believe and I forgive you, America…"

But God his face was so different now…

"I couldn't do it anymore." America pulled his sobs back inside and just dropped his eyes again, staring at the stones under their feet and staying close enough that England didn't need to let go. He could taste the rain waiting in the grey sky above to come down on them, but his umbrella was left hooked over his elbow. "I couldn't keep his face anymore… or his name…"

"That was such a long time ago, my friend." Because, maybe, England still wanted America to be his friend. "And you've borne it well."

America didn't laugh, but he tried it with tears still leaking warm and fast down his face. He spread his thinned lips and hissed air between his tongue and teeth. It was almost a sneer but the sounds couldn't reach his eyes.

"Don't lie to me, man… I…" England pulled him in again for another hug, because America needed that more than he needed to finish that thought. "I… pretty much dropped the whole planet, didn't I? I- I'm so…"

"We all fall eventually." He hushed, speaking for a moment as one past Empire to another, one hand moving up and down the shaking back leaning on him, trying to remind him of what comfort felt like. "You're still here, and that means you did well…"

"_I'm so sorry…"_

"America-? Oh…"

England picked his head off America's shoulder when he heard the voice, looking through the mist of his own poorly held-back tears as the first drops of cold winter rain hit the pavement around them. When he looked up, he saw a familiar human coming towards them, but the man had stopped short.

"Hey, boss…" As America straightened up a little, taking a deep breath through his nose and taking a handkerchief from Canada, his President remained at a full stop and brought one hand up so they would give him a moment to speak.

"Just wondering where you'd gone." He was casual about speaking to his nation, it was refreshing to see. But he was also casual about speaking to nations he didn't serve: "Mister England, His Highness was looking for you but I can just tell him you three need a moment."

"I'll come with you." Canada piped up, glancing at the sky briefly before smiling down on America and England again. He still had a hand on both of them where they'd separated again, a friendly touch that added to his smile and the kind words that followed. "You two can take your time."

"But we're your guests-" England didn't expect a defense of manners to come rolling out of America's mouth, but there they were. "We should…" He also didn't expect whatever humility it was that stopped him from saying the rest of what he was thinking, because America looked between the two of them slowly and then dropped his voice again. England wasn't sure he approved of the change.

"We should participate in the ceremony we came here for." He pulled the words out of his chest because he felt the cold touch of rain on his hair, the sky darkening further above them before with a ruffle of nylon a black umbrella opened itself in the President's hands. They were close to the door, but the covering was held up over England's head to protect him from the two and a half feet of weeping sky above him. "And you-" Grabbing and pulling hard on America's sleeve, it made the reborn nation look down from the umbrella and face him again.

"Yeah?" He didn't even say _'yes'_ properly, because even with that bit of twang in his voice that would take so long to get used to, he was still the United States of America.

"_You_ will have a lot of explaining to do."

Fifteen years' worth of explanation.

* * *

_Spring, 2035._

"I have ruled Italy for over twenty years: if you think I'm afraid of you, _Former President_ Westwood, then you're wrong."

"It's Secretary Westwood." Secretary of the State, because after two successful terms in office Philip Westwood was barred from running for President a third time. The United States of America had a firm constitution, and it was one he'd obeyed even with staggering popularity. "And I'm not telling you to be afraid, I'm telling you to pay attention to the voices around the world-"

"Voices that haven't stopped whispering about me since the media first saw my face- hah!" The way the man behind the large stone desk laughed and tossed a dismissive hand in the air just had a way of getting under Phil's collar. Even when he'd still been America's Head of State, dealing with his Italian Counterpart had never been easy for him: how could someone disregard democracy so completely? Just the laws his hands had signed- how many innocent families had been destroyed for the sake of this man's witch hunts?

"Off the record then, _Lorenzo_." But at the end of the day they were two old men who had been in politics for too long, and they'd both seen and done things no sane men should ever have to live with. The fact that they weren't alone in this room was a testament to that. The old man in his Italian General's uniform behind the desk tilted one hand for Phil to speak, Rossi's thick neck inclining his half-bald head forward. They were just barely on a first-name basis after well over ten years working in similar circles, but Phil reached for it and wasn't cast down.

"Twenty years. How does Italy still trust you?" How were the two halves of Italy still able, and still _willing_ to stand behind their leader? And Phil didn't just mean that in the metaphorical sense, because as he looked up a little bit he saw them literally standing there: two men who didn't age and had never wavered in all the years he'd been coming to Rome.

America had explained them to him before: the Italian brothers. He'd explained more over the years than Phil felt a lot of other world leaders had been told: why the Earthquake had happened, how the Italian people had been able to change so quickly, what it was that kept them so damned loyal to someone so radical they should have been hiding from him instead. The Italian master wasn't a fascist in the classic sense, in fact his policies almost bordered on communistic, but an absolute ruler should have absolutely terrified the nation he was ruling.

"Because I listen to them." Phil wanted to argue, opening his mouth and- "Ten years ago there was no parliament in Rome; I brought it back. For almost a hundred years now there has only been _one_ party in China, but in Italy we have two."

"But first and final word is always yours-"

"You were a Red President who signed more Blue bills into law than any president before you, don't act like we're so different." Rossi brought one fat hand up and stopped him from leaping down the other man's throat for the comment, because he nearly did it. "I know we _are_ different, Westwood, but American Presidents have vetoes, and you only used yours twice in eight years. I have not used mine yet."

"But if you hatched another crazy scheme tomorrow, no one in Italy would be able to stop you from pushing through with it."

"No, but a crazy scheme would only hurt my nation." He worked a gesture into things easily, indicating both men with one tilt of his head, not breaking eye-contact as the American folded his arms and tried to listen. "As I already said: I listen to them."

"And how are you going to guarantee that the person who replaces you will do the same?" That was the hardline issue here: that was the reason why Phil was here in the first place to talk to the ruling Italian figure. He was here to sue for Democracy, to try prying apart the thick mortar and heavy bricks of the wall keeping the people out of their own Presidential palace. "It's been twenty years, how much longer are the Italian people going to suffer from your purge?"

"I'm expected to take cues from China for that answer, and name a successor with their approval." If Lorenzo Rossi had at least one redeeming feature about him, it was that blunt honesty that he pulled out when it suited him best. Now seemed to be one of those moments because Phil had never known Rossi once to deny what role the People's Republic of China had in all Italian affairs. "But I don't think I will."

These words earned everyone's attention, because even the two men in uniform behind him shifted slightly. The older brother looked confused, the younger was curious.

Sitting to his right, Phil was aware of America shifting awkwardly in his seat too. He was tempted to check and see if there was some kind of eye-contact going on between the three nations but kept himself focused the man in front of him.

"What do you mean?" He pressed.

"I don't want to make Mussolini's mistakes." There were times when honesty moved from refreshing to overwhelming, and harkening back a hundred years to the Second World War was standing right on that edge. "I've kept my people out of international conflicts, I have _not_ settled for half-measures to curb organized crime instead of crushing it properly, and I don't intend to be shot in the chest and have my corpse dragged through Rome by revolutionaries." Phil closed his eyes.

"That… is a good plan." And that was about as good a reply as he could think up for a declaration like that.

"But I also don't want to give democracy back to the people only to have the Families come and snatch it out of their hands again." Looking at Rossi's square, rigid face actually said something about how sincerely he meant that. They were old men now, and _Il Capo_ let out a long, heavy breath through his nose and seemed to stoop a little in his seat, shrinking and aging with the strain of twenty years' rule over what had been a corrupted and withering nation. He'd ruled for almost three times as long as Westwood, and as much as there was to disagree over, he knew what that weight was like.

"I have raised a generation accustomed to rules, with expectations of an accountable government, and having consequences which match the crimes they address." Phil almost spoke, but held back and let Rossi address what they both heard with a wave of his hand. "And no, I don't mean accountable in the democratic sense, but accountable in that _this_ law is read _this_ way, and it is meant _only that way_. People know _what_ to expect from my government, and they always have."

"What about the next government?"

"Now you see why I'm willing to even have this conversation with you." Not… really… "I do not like being bound with a leash to Beijing, I've never liked it." But Chinese money had kept the Italian state afloat for over two decades: barely enough time to _raise_ that next generation. "If I move too quickly in any direction they will either choke me or shoot me: it depends on what I'm trying to do."

The Nations behind the man reacted strangely to that. The older brother dropped his eyes straight to the floor, the younger one turning his head to look at him. Clearly those words meant more to the brothers than Westwood was qualified to understand.

"What does China want?"

"As I said: for me to choose a successor now and rule until I either have a stroke at this desk or I die some other way, and then let that successor come into power and rule exactly as I have, with them standing over him to make sure things progress as planned." As _planned_…

"Alright… then what do _you_ want?"

"I want to retire." He said it so casually, words rolling off his tongue and a smile pulling at his weary face. "And before anybody here says anything: yes. I know. I made the decision twenty years ago not to live that life so it's impossible now, _but…_" And now Rossi sat up properly, adjusting his chair so he was seated straight and in-line with the back of his desk. He wasn't sitting there in a throne or some elaborate piece either, just a wooden chair with a bit of padding for however many hours a day he spent in it. "But Rome doesn't need me anymore."

The deep breath and sudden stream of Italian from one of the brothers standing behind him made Westwood look up in surprise. He couldn't understand the words, but he watched the older brother with his thin and leathery expression speak, ribbons of the language tying themselves in knots. Watching the nation and the ruler was incredible not just because Italy spoke so freely, but because Rossi actually did exactly what he'd said: he listened.

"He's saying…" America spoke up quietly next to him, jolting Phil from his mesmerized moment and encouraging him to lean over and listen. "That without the strength of an absolute leader in Rome, there's no guarantee protocols will continue to be followed… there's a lot of other stuff, but-"

"If you're going to translate, America, then we might as well just say it in English." Rossi interrupted, his Nation appearing frustrated behind him and the Northern brother giving Phil and his companion a look that clearly asked if he was serious for having interpreted like that. "And in English, Romano: I disagree."

"_Capo_-"

"I disagree and this is why:" Somewhere unspoken was the command to just let the Americans watch and listen, because the Dictator didn't even pause before going into his explanation: "I already rely on men half my age to explain what goes on in this office. I was a pilot, an officer, a soldier: not a banker. Social order? Yes. Chain of Command? Yes. Reconstruction? Yes. Corruption? _Yes_, these things I understand. But now you have a generation of loyal Italian people who understand it just as well, and you've already explained to me how you cannot go out and choose a replacement for me the way I was chosen so long ago. You need a new, better solution, and _whining_ about not wanting to change isn't going to help anything."

"He got you there…"

"Shut up."

Even Westwood found America's comment out of line, giving his nation a firm look where the dark-skinned young man was trying to cover his smile with one hand. South Italy had already responded to it though, and in an environment like this the State Secretary was satisfied with having the nations keep each other in line. The man across from him also seemed inclined to do the same, so Phil put the conversation back on track.

"What do you want from us, Rossi?"

"I want American economic support for the Italian people." And now they were talking business, and that honesty brought things back into the realm of the refreshing. It was rare, almost unheard of in a way, for a Head of State on one side of that feral line across International Politics to speak openly about cooperation and mutual aid. "But I want that economic support to filter through public industries only: do not give the Families a foothold back into Italy."

"You know if you changed the word 'Families' to 'Jews' I would-"

"The colour of a man's skin rests in God's hands, and no man can challenge that." The Italian shot him down with a violence that threatened to turn his English on its head and fall back into his native tongue. "But the decision to do evil is a man's choice, and it is his son's choice, and his wife's and his daughter's and his mother's. Do _not_ make me explain this again, American, because your nation has always had the luxury of choice whereas mine was forced into action."

Phil wasn't an idiot and he knew that the synchronized actions of the nations behind Rossi's chair were a warning. The brothers moved together to take one step closer to their master's chair, and each one brought a hand down to rest on the back of his seat. It was the kind of solidarity and strength that Phil had used during his own administration after finding a young man with impossible memories and a distinct familiarity loitering in the White House halls. Nations could sway congresses and parliaments, they breathed the will of the people and lived to do their work.

Nations, Phil had come to believe, meant more to democracy than ballot boxes or campaign fliers ever would.

So he dropped the issue, and he let its thorns bite into the hard ground between them instead of letting it draw more blood over soiled matters.

"Public funding." He said slowly, rephrasing the other man's request.

"My people need options, they need a way to keep themselves clean of corruption." So he wanted his industries to have third party support- or fourth party, because China was already involved and now this dangerous man was asking America to step boldly into Chinese territory.

"_He'll throw a fit._"

Phil should…_ not_ have understood those words. If his brain slowed down enough and broke down the sounds then they didn't sound like English, and his rudimentary grasp of Spanish and German should have been useless too. When he looked at the young man seated next to him again Phil knew it was because America trusted him, because the nation was looking at his counterparts across the room again, and Phil understood words that had once just been gibberish.

"_I mean it, Romano: he'll make your life a living hell."_

"How do you think China will react to this?" The Secretary asked, because he knew Rossi wouldn't be able to understand America's question and when the Italian brothers finished hitting each other with such conflicted looks Westwood wouldn't be able to hear their answer. "What if you end up shot?"

A string of nonsense came out of South Italy's mouth, not Italian: that secret code of almost-language that America listened to and processed slowly. North Italy was biting his bottom lip and watching his brother closely, South wasn't looking at anyone and even Rossi seemed tense, waiting for his own thoughts to collect before he could answer.

"Having two larger economies, neither one based in Europe, will bring more stability to Italy's industries and investments." Was he interpreting for his nation? It almost felt that way because his cadence wasn't quite the same. Grey eyes were looking down at the stray papers placed on the desk in front of him, a pen idly lifted to spin and roll between old fingers. "Stability curbs criminal tendencies almost as well as force in most cases, sometimes better in others. Furthermore, bringing American investors into Italy, along with the Canadian and French influences we already enjoy, will help calm down those whispers in Europe that you're so worried about."

"And China?"

America didn't repeat him when Phil asked the question again, which meant he was right: whatever South Italy had replied with matched what his master had just said. North Italy remained silent throughout, but there was something in him as he looked back and forth between leader and brother. It was Rossi who spoke:

"I'll handle China."

And somehow… it felt like Ruler and Ruled still gave the same answer.

* * *

_Spring-Summer, 2038._

Three years later, _Il Capo_ resigned and the first truly free elections in Italy occurred in almost a quarter century.

A Youth-Dominated Party focused on tax and service reforms swept into office with an emphasis on Globalization.

Lorenzo Rossi was elected President and Head of State by a majority of voters over forty.

"So much for retirement." Was all he told the newspapers.

South Italy spent the following two months in Beijing after the elections, returning with bruises hidden by clothes but painfully obvious when he stood or moved.

North Italy was there with a reinvigorated finance sector to sooth his brother's aches, making excuses for his absence until South was ready to take the spotlight again.

No one was allowed to know.

* * *

_Summer, 2042._

FIFA-Forty-Two: Rome. The last three decades had brought wave after wave of change to the host nation, but one thing that had endured was a ferocious love of sports.

"Pass- _pass!"_

"_Use your head!"_

There were still marks of what made relations between one half of Europe and the other so difficult: the long speech during the opening ceremony a week ago, the suffocating security meant to keep the players, audience, and officials safe, the tricolour painting itself across the field thanks to the multi-million euro lighting system.

Prussia hadn't been welcomed to Rome so much as acknowledged and then left to follow his brother around. His tickets had been scanned and his elevator pass worked just fine, but the marks were still there.

The way North Italy bared his teeth instead of smiling at him, the way South Italy wouldn't leave the two of them unattended if he could help it. North Italy could hold a grudge with the best of them, and Spain was treated much the same way.

"Just go talk to him." They were wearing suits and ties, not jerseys and face-paint. A large and impressive box had been reserved for them high in the best seat of the stadium house. It made sure the nations had all the scope they needed to watch their teams compete in the dim interior lighting and the bright spotlights up above.

"I can't." Not everyone was here tonight, but as Prussia ran a finger over the edge of his beer sleeve, there was still a murmur of conversation pinched with the hiss and yell of the people watching the game below. He was seated comfortably in a thick leather chair and only a few spaces down from the former Italian Dictator where the man was relaxing comfortably having a drink and discussion with the politician whose party had replaced his rule. His presence spoiled some of the mood for the blonde, but that was what kept him focused on Spain sitting next to him.

Spain had a perpetually worried look on his face whenever talk of Italy or Rome came up around him. He was barely watching the Portuguese team run back and forth against the Italians on the turf below, but even Prussia could see his friend's eyes flickering over to their hosts at the glass window.

"_Don't you dare- don't you-!"_

"_Aaaaah-!"_

"Go cheer for their team." Prussia pushed again, drinking from his beer while South Italy muttered curses through the glass and North had his hands clenched tight in front of him, bouncing a little on his toes and hissing with sportsman's pain as the ball was intercepted and taken against their net by the Portuguese.

"I _can't_." Down at the other end of the box, Portugal was clapping and yelling loudly, laughter moving through the strings of bodies as nations started picking sides.

"Go beat up Portugal."

"Prussia, I-"

"Yes you can." Prussia cut him off and watched Spain puff out his cheeks, his friend slouching until he sank further into his seat and rubbed his forehead with one hand, shaking his head slowly. Prussia sucked back more cold, frothy beer and swallowed it down before attacking Spain again: "I know what's with you and those two, but that was _years_ ago, for fuck's sake." Spain's economy had rebounded. He wasn't running into a Golden Age, but he was doing better now than he arguably had in the last hundred years. "What's between you and him isn't like what's wrong with his brother and my brother, so cut it out and go talk to him."

Because what was wrong with Germany and North Italy wasn't going to go away until West could figure out what was wrong with the German automotive industry and try to bring it back to life. West was in Rome for FIFA's tournament, of course, but he wasn't here tonight: unless their team was playing, he didn't want to come too close to their hosts.

"And if North stops me?" Spain was looking over at them again, the Italian brothers in some of their best designs and even the younger brother, in a rare attempt to just have fun, had left the uniform at home tonight in favour of a black suit and polished shoes. He still looked done-up, but his face was doing this thing Prussia hadn't seen in years, this weird thing with his lips going really thin and his eyes flashing before his voice caught up with the rest of him:

"_Bene- bene! Run faster!_" It was something like a smile.

"_Go, go, go!"_

"_NO! DON'T YOU DARE!" _-and of course Portugal had to get his two cents in as well.

The crowd was beginning to do more than just hum and cheer, voices rising like a wave of sound that crested just under the box's floor and then slammed down on the athletes running for their lives down below. Prussia had to get up and watch it happen, pulling Spain along with him because politics and pressure aside: there was a game going on!

It wasn't a picturesque goal: the clean break-away by the forward runner, firing at the net while the goalie dove the wrong way. No, it was more like the almost-clean break followed by a yellow card after he was shoved down by a panicked defender. Lots of pressure on the Portuguese net and a good ten minutes of dancing before someone tapped the ball in and let it roll right off the goalie's glove into the netting.

But it was still an Italian goal, and it made the home crowd scream while upstairs the two halves of the nation turned on each other and shocked Prussia one more time with all the changes right in front of him.

The laughter and the yelling, and finally a high-five that turned into clasped hands and more rapid-fire Italian over what they'd just seen.

And when Spain finally made a move and spoke up to South Italy about the goal, North not only let him approach and carry on, but ignored them to rib Portugal instead. It was like going back a long ways through time and seeing friends he'd counted out of his life for good, and that realization made Prussia decide on something.

He decided that, even if China was still hovering there, almost unseen but still listening to every word that passed between Italy and Spain, and even if France swept in unannounced to follow North Italy and poke Portugal full of holes while the match below was reset and prepared to continue… Even with all the politics hanging over their heads and clouding up their eyes, double meanings confusing their words and making enemies out of friendships…

He decided that he'd make West come to the match tomorrow night. Prussia decided that… thirty years was long enough to let his brother hurt and hide.

Prussia decided that it was time to start tearing down the walls between them, and even if it took another thirty years to continue, he could start it tonight with a handshake.

"Nice goal, Italy. A bit sloppy, but it worked." He'd thought he was speaking to South Italy when North turned around from across the room with:

"Says the one with _zero tournament points!_"

So, on second thought, maybe he'd punch them both out instead.

* * *

_November, 2053._

Bird feathers and the glitter of sunlight on ocean ripples.

Bits of trash, plastic floating on green slime.

Red tiles, broken, white plaster crumbling off grey concrete.

Venice.

Anywhere else but his heart would have satisfied him; any place else could have left him the strength to keep breathing.

"Why are we here?" Why had China brought him here, made him step off the train platform in a place where North Italy with all of his broken heart did not want to be?

"Does your own city disturb you?" It did, and it was more than the pull on China's lips or the quiet light in his black eyes could comprehend.

"I have urgent business in Rome." North Italy had to escape.

"And I have urgent business with you here, in Venice." China wouldn't let him.

He couldn't control himself and his people noticed it. Hiding behind the tinted windows of the car didn't help him as they were driven down rebuilt Venetian streets, those who were out and walking on a Sunday afternoon stopped and took notice of something that never should have caught their attention.

Transferring from the car to the water's edge nearly made him run away.

"Get in the boat."

"I don't want-"

"It wasn't a request."

China was firm and unyielding, frightening and willing to use force to get him into the black gondola. Maybe he didn't hold the same kind of crushing influence over Italy that he'd held during previous decades, but that didn't make him negligible. China still had the power to walk into Rome and tell North Italy to stand up and leave with him for the train station on a whim. China, in a way, still owned them.

That they had to use the slowest method of travel, the most traditional and therefore painful means of getting through the city, just made the entire experience that much harder for him to bear. Having China seat himself across from him in the wooden vessel, eyes drifting periodically from the broken city to the half-nation who'd been born here, only made it worse.

"Why are we here?" And why in God's name were they following a path through the city that made Italy Veneziano want to throw himself overboard and swim away? He told himself he understood and agreed with the judgement Romano had held against Venice for centuries: that the canal water stank of garbage and stagnant sea water. He clasped his hands hard in front of him and refused to rock his body back and forth on his padded seat, planting his gaze down between his boots telling himself there was no comfort in the lilt and give of the gondola through the water.

He told himself.

He ordered himself.

And yet he could not believe himself.

"We aren't there yet." No, China, don't do this to him. Veneziano looked up at the stronger nation and tried to make sense of the ageless face glancing casually at the bridges that shadowed them, eyeing the windows open or shuttered against the light. "You'll figure out the answer when we do."

"China…" But that was all China was willing to say, because the firm look he was given told him to stop trying to argue his way out of whatever was going to happen. He could feel his fingers going numb between each other when the boat rocked a little more and then made a graceful turn around a wide corner, the distant whine of a radio singing from a balcony telling him to close his eyes and imagine himself anywhere else.

'_I am…'_

In Florence, maybe.

'_I am…'_

Moving down the Tiber in Rome.

'_I am…'_

Even Verona would have been a kinder place than this.

'_I-!'_

"North Italy." He felt the breath go out of him when China said his name, his shoulders collapsed and bound in tight while his hands were locked trying to keep from shaking. A swollen feeling infiltrated his lungs as he felt the change, the subtle flush of colour and light across his eyes when they passed the non-existent line between one quarter of Venice, and another… "Tell me your name."

"You just said-"

"Your _whole_ name." He was in pain, he couldn't be here- "We both know the pain will pass, now answer me."

"I am…" he couldn't breathe, and maybe he was wrong to call it pain because that sharp, cutting sensation hadn't come to him yet, it wasn't piercing through his ribs and drawing out the blood of corruption and lies. "I am the North half of the Sovereign State of Italy." The word _'republic' _had fallen out of use over ten years ago: he no longer knew that word.

"Progenitor of which state?" China's hands were resting comfortably in his own lap, his long black coat unbuttoned in the sunlight and hair pulled back severely behind his round head, the tail running down between his shoulders and only showed itself when he looked out across the city again. How casually he ignored his own question…

"Of Veneto." If China truly wanted his full name, then Veneziano was going to make him drag every piece of it from his chapped and thirsty lips.

"And which city?" If only his master hadn't been so overbearing.

"Venezia."

"And the quarter of…?"

The words were in his throat but he only raised his eyes to give China a warning look, calling on an anger he couldn't feel to protect him from a fear that wasn't real. The idea that there could be something beyond the hatred, terror or agony that had sustained him for this long could not be given space to take root. Veneziano wouldn't let himself delve down that deeply, he had to be firm about the one thing he knew would always keep him alive.

The gondola knocked against the old stones in the neighbourhood he would not name, because giving it a name would bring back the memory of what it had once been: the memory of who _he_ had once been.

"Please go." The voice forced him to turn and look at what was more important than the water or stones of Venice, the sunlight leaving his eyes long enough to see the young, uncertain face of the man who had directed the gondola here. He was young enough to be a student, his face long and narrow with pinched lips and sunken brown eyes shaded under his tanned brow. Most humans looked first at his uniform, forgot to look up and find his eyes and take comfort in the presence of the nation working hard to protect them. "Go with him, I mean…"

This young man did not speak to him in standard Italian, maybe he just knew not to speak to the whole of North Italy. Maybe he didn't know how much it would hurt to have Venezia itself singled out inside of him. The man spoke the local dialect, and he used it smoothly, almost lovingly, with a hand touching first the nation's shoulder and then moving delicately down his arm trying to help him find his feet and stand.

"Please go see San Marco…" He pleaded. "_Please…_"

"What did they do to it..?" Veneziano found himself being coaxed up to stand, and though he let the human hold his arm he did not need it. Centuries ago he had been the Republic of Venice, and he had known waves and open water better than any other: he would not fall in the gentle rocking of his own canals…

But he needed his answer: what had happened in his city?

"My heart…"

Slowly, his son only smiled at him.

"Are you coming?"

And when his master called, North Italy was quick to turn and grab the rope tethered to the stone pillar marking the steps for boat passengers, boots grabbing the worn stone steps easily and carrying him up the few feet to reach the walkway and road above them.

He didn't know if he remembered the last time he had been here or not: in Venice. He had heard the story of how he'd been found, and he sometimes thought he remembered enough of the pain and desolation to say he knew what the others meant when they recalled the catastrophe that had weakened him. But it was very hard for him. The nightmares of fire and his children weeping under the debris had passed, but it was still too hard to remember. What good would dwelling bring him?

If he had to remember deaths, he remembered the collapsed tunnels and the burning fires. He couldn't handle remembering the ones who had breathed their last before polluted water rose up and swallowed their homes; he couldn't take in the lives snuffed out under the sunken cavern of their basilica…

But he could walk over the scars cut into his city by that night, the ribbons of plaster and concrete liberally poured to fill breaks in tile mosaics and smeared between old bricks to paste them back together. Still the broken towers of old churches loomed high between the blue sky and white sun, their fallen heads visible in the murky green waters running between raised streets. New steel structures hovered over the places where stone spans had been strong for centuries, the traditional face of his city staring up through the water where the ruins had been cast and faster-to-build, cheaper-to-maintain steel constructions had replaced them. It hurt him to see how little the 21st century had cared for, or really even been able to tend to, those ancient memories…

He could admit it here more easily than any other city or township that was a part of him: the reconstruction had not brought Venice back to life, it had simply kept it on life-support…

They passed people as they walked, Veneziano giving up the effort to question China because it was clear he wasn't going to receive any answers. But there was one thing that struck him as he mentally followed the path they were taking to its original end, and there was one detail he couldn't shake.

There were too many people.

Too many people for a road that led nowhere.

Where were they coming from?

China and Veneziano passed from sunny streets to blue shadows, crossing steel bridges and even one or two spans made out of wood. He could feel their passage and track it in his mind, confusion building as a bicycle wheeled by and a row of arches shaded them from the bright winter sunlight.

There wasn't enough land left for this much life. Shops and dwellings should have begun to dwindle long before now, the population escaping north away from the water's edge and the frail, fragile platforms half-submerged between the waves.

"China?"

There should be no people here, because beyond this row of buildings, he knew: the land ended.

"China stop-" The structures had collapsed and the lagoon had shifted: no more land beyond here, past these stones, under those arches. San Marco had crumbled into the saline water of the Adriatic, the beating heart of Venice was gone, and in another fifty yards there would be nothing but broken stones and- and…

They were walking along under a covered mall now, columns classic and modern holding up a roof of renaissance plaster and new-age ceramic, lights worked along the edges so the brilliance of day was bolstered by 21st century convenience. And there were too many people, because where the sun came shining down at the far end of the plaza was where the land was meant to-

Veneziano took another step and he felt it, he felt the jolt pass from the sole of his boot up through his leg, a shock of pure white energy that blinded him because it tingled straight up his spine and flushed over his skin like cold water. The map he knew, the dimensions and form of his city; the thing that he was because he embodied and lived it: it disagreed with this.

He should have just stepped into water.

But he looked down at here he was atop several feet of concrete and wood, iron beams buried in supports submerged in lagoon mud, varnished with coloured tiles and shimmering under electric lights.

But no.

This was where San Marco was meant to end.

For forty years now, this was the place where San Marco had ended.

China had stopped and Veneziano knew why, because he turned his head from looking straight down and stared at the line of shops next to them. His eyes touched the walls and the stones and- and he _saw_ the line.

He didn't have to touch the walls, he felt it push through him: the place where old stone met new concrete, the cherubs free of grime and growth, freshly cut and hidden under eaves and beside windows.

He looked down at the stones again and he knew it: he knew how the composition of the road changed from his youths' techniques to construction methods of the modern day. Where wood met steel and stone boulders became cement pylons.

The old and the new, the original and the reconstruction: he felt the difference.

He felt his heart squeeze itself and slow down, and then with one firm push it beat against his ribs. It was a hammer hitting him from inside and it only struck once, like a bell's tang waiting to see of the shell would crack from the force.

Looking up again into the sunlight, Veneziano couldn't ask: only fear.

"My city-"

"A World Heritage Site." Those words felt like they should have meant more, or hurt more, but all Veneziano could feel as China took a few slow steps back towards him was cold. The cold of winter water lapping gently around his calves, currents brushing over his stomach and whispering to him of a time long ago in this place right here.

A hundred years ago.

A thousand years ago.

Two thousand years ago: the warm hands pulling him out of the mud and weeds of the lagoon to hold him on a strong Roman shoulder.

For a thousand years the steps and songs of revellers wearing masks, because gunpowder and politics be damned they only had one life to live and love with.

A hundred years that tasted of ash and blood before independence led to peace and peace brought safety and safety meant rest and wealth… from peace.

_Peace._

"Thank you."

China was holding a hand out to him, and it was strange because he rarely ever offered to shake hands. He didn't like western conventions but there it was, a hand offered with palm and wrist straight. The firm words felt sincere because China wasn't lacing them with anything, boldly making Veneziano meet his gaze and see how there was no laughing light or dark secrets swimming in the black pools. Just a handshake, and a thanks that North Italy didn't understand.

"What happened?" He took the hand and it felt so hard to shake it, like he was a child being shown how the grown-ups conducted business.

"Thank you for what you did for me." Forty years. Forty years and now- "We disagree on many things, North, but I can only afford the luxury of power because you sacrificed so much more to ensure it." He was… actually hearing… And when China didn't let go of his hand, just tilted it so-

China bowed, the Eastern Dragon and Juggernaut of Industry bowed and kissed his hand, stately and reserved without affection or hesitation. He kissed his hand and it was done, and Veneziano felt his heart slam him again from the inside again and send him shaking. Why was the light shining so loudly around them?

"Go." Go where? Now China smiled, just a small, soft tug on his pink lips as he took a step out of Veneziano's way, leaving the path dotted with people open and lead him to that brilliant light. And then he looked sad…?

"Go see what they've built for you." Built for… "Venezia."

Their hands fell away. They didn't drop, but parted smoothly in light that was so strong it was singing in his ears, sighing through his hair like the sea breeze that funnelled through the closed space and coiled itself around his shoulders: pulling. He could feel himself being begged to move, forces beyond him pleading with him to accept what he had not touched in so long.

_Peace._

But it took one more thing to push him, one more sensation that was more than the wind or the light or the water of his city. It was more than too many people along a street that should have led to nowhere but ruins and salty water. It was something that touched him deeper than he'd let anything else come close, and when he felt it break over him like a wave he lost the power to breathe and felt his senses fade out for a moment. He was desperate to connect with it: with that sound.

That sound.

Those _bells._

His bells, chiming so far away and echoing in the empty cavern of his chest before the tang struck again and his whole body shook from it. He was staring through the light half a hundred yards away but the brilliance shielded him from what was beyond. His children like reeds in the shallow waters parted the white curtains and moved like fish about their business, chilling him with the reality of more beyond the veil, something past the arches and columns keeping him safe inside what he knew.

_But the bells…_

"Go."

He went after China coaxed him again, walking first, almost stumbling, but then his knee picked itself up higher and his weight fell forward on its own. Reflective, instinctive, shoulders bowed and wrists loose, the wind knocked his hat away and he didn't stop or try to catch it.

He ran.

He ran and nothing stopped him: no voices calling him back or pain to slow him down. The distance wasn't enough to wind him and when he broke through the light the shower of sparkling day only made him slow down, not stop completely.

But then he did stop, because he didn't have to stop.

Because there was still stone and tile under his feet. There was still mosaic and masonry, there were more hidden pylons and redirected water. There was city beneath him, his city, his heart, and as the light pulled away like sheer curtains meant to protect him from that knowledge, he felt that sharp pain knock through him again.

Because he saw the bell-tower first. Bright red bricks capped with a white head held proud against the unbroken blue sky, his flag unfurled and flying over what had for too long been a pile of red rubble submerged by green water.

And he heard the voices next, the people and the children, the tourists and locals drinking coffee and taking pictures. The youths too young to know pain were laughing brightly, chasing friends and playmates over smooth stone and behind tall statues, the eyes of the older and wiser watching them with ageless care.

Statues that should have been sealed in watery graves here stood with hands raised, wings spread, white bodies and grey hands. Roman robes and Renaissance garbs, _reborn_ as it were beneath the cold sun with plaques glittering on tall marble pedestals.

And he saw the water, but it was so far away and tamed by the traffic of puttering boats and sleepy black gondolas. The fresh green mingled with pure blue and azure winds breathed cold fingers of frost against metal and glass rising on the far horizon. It was his sea-port, his access to the world, his second home lapping at the edge of the first one.

He couldn't stop moving, stop stepping over what had been ten and twenty feet below the surface for so long he'd lost touch with it: lost to a grave he couldn't stoop before and a long-lost life he had not mourned. Venice had died exactly the way he had: tormented and drowned by forces more than itself. His city had been brought to ruins and North Italy had abandoned it like everything else he'd left behind every time at every painful junction along his uneven road to survival. Life support, not resurrection: that was what he'd given his heart.

Someone else had changed that.

Veneziano couldn't even look for the swooping, patterned roof of a landmark cathedral long forgotten by God and given back to his cold waters. He heard the bell again, marking another hour, announcing another time, and maybe he'd wandered straight back through memories and fallen into a dream where nothing hurt and he knew no fear, but maybe not.

"Italy?"

Maybe not.

"France?"

Because maybe it really was France who appeared through the streams of light, a pale blue suit revealed under the white volume of a winter jacket, his long blond hair catching the wind and ruffling gently in the sea breeze, his hand holding a bouquet of flowers Veneziano needed too much time to recognize as roses. He didn't know why the Leader of the European Union was here, he didn't know why he'd brought flowers with him here to a place that shouldn't have existed outside North Italy's own memories, but when six thorn-less white roses were handed to him he somehow reached out to take them.

"Thank you." Another thanks.

"I didn't do anythi…" But then he saw England's shy round face forming in the light and words abandoned him, because the nation with dirty blonde hair and a gentlemen's cane approached slowly and then stopped, performing an elegant bow and whispering the same words.

"_Thank you_."

"Why..?"

"For everything." Russia's voice took too long to register beside him, and he knew he could feel confused tears in his eyes as the stems of three fresh sunflowers were pressed between his shaking hands. The taller nation was a friend who could be trusted more than China, but not as much as America, and he laid a hand on Veneziano's shoulder that felt just right for their bond as more footsteps told him more people were approaching.

_So many people…_

"_Uncle?_" Bless America for approaching him with Italian on his lips. "_Do you want to sit down? There's a new bench over here._" Bless him twice for putting both arms around him in a hug before worrying about his strength or how much more he could take. He gave up trying to understand and he just hugged the younger state with his dark hair and familiar voice, eyes closed for a moment as the bell kept tolling, tolling…

"But this one's salvaged." Canada too..? When America stepped away, Canada was there to neatly bow again to him out of respect, the taller boy gesturing to some structure Veneziano couldn't see for the light, but he could feel it. He welcomed the solemn voice that explained so much to him in only a breath of words:

"_We salvaged as much as we could from the water."_

The stones were authentic. The statues were originals. The piazza had been raised brick by brick from the muddy floor of the lagoon and brought back to the sun and the streets and the children and-

"Please accept my heartfelt thanks…" And Veneziano had not spoken directly to Japan in so long that he almost didn't recognize the soft, mellow voice that reached him from inside a growing ring of nations. A gently wrapped letter of red and blue paper was handed to him and hidden amongst the flowers, petals rustling in the wind as someone's voice told him how many years and how many steps the process had taken.

"I owe you the lives of my two best friends," was what Spain said to him, his tone soft and reserved, his tanned face lost without its smile as Veneziano just stood there, shaking, hearing words he'd stopped understanding and turning again when he felt something different. An arm pushed its way through the bend in his elbow, locking around his before he saw the pale red hair and one blue-green eye that matched the rippling sea beyond them.

"Seborga…?" One-eyed and quiet, the patch he'd worn for years over one side of his face didn't mar the smile he gave before he leaned up and pressed a kiss against his cheek, a hand on Veneziano's shoulder and arm still comfortably linked with his. Shaking free never crossed his mind.

"I love you too, okay?" Was what his brother whispered. And it was okay… because Veneziano could accept love today…

And he could handle Romano's warm hand rubbing over his other shoulder and down his back, the familiarity of his touch telling Veneziano everything he needed before his older brother was there at his side. His touch was solid and unwavering, and he was standing there unapologetic and firm, only meeting his eyes for a moment with one arm around him.

It was like he was asking through Veneziano's tears if he was still okay.

Speaking led to a sobbing, sorry sound that he fought back with a smile that was too fractured to tell the truth. His heart was screaming in his chest and everything was spinning rapidly, but another kiss in his hair this time made the trembling cry of the bells soak into him faster. He breathed around the trembling force and took it in, he felt it pump his blood through weary veins and leaned back against his brothers to support him.

"Italy." And he needed that support, because in his mind he knew how to count, and he had counted ten nations out of twelve already with Seborga standing close to break the memory.

Eyes locked on the bell-tower high above again, someone's steps disturbed a trio of pigeons making their way across the piazza. China had rejoined them and the whittling sound of feathers against the breeze brought motion that dropped his gaze again. His eyes fell on two at once now that the sun's brilliance was tamed and he could see beyond the ring of strangely familiar faces.

So he saw Prussia first, his footsteps lingering and hands dug deep in black jean pockets, a canvas jacket protecting him from the chill as his red eyes drifted over and under the confining circle. It took him more than one approach to make it in line with the others, choosing a place between France and Spain before he nodded twice in silence to himself and then spoke.

"Thank you." The same words, but then with eye-contact that meant more than what followed. "And I'm sorry for making it so hard to come this far."

"Do you mean that?" It was almost rude of him to ask that question, but he'd already seen who was behind Prussia and he was entitled to it. Defensive walls took too long to deconstruct, and now was not the moment for him to tear them down all at once. There was so little keeping him together between the stones, sunlight and sounds that Veneziano leaned further into Romano's arm and tugged his younger brother closer at the same time. He wanted them close.

But Prussia didn't take insult, he just lowered his eyes slowly to the reclaimed stonework under their feet, brushing the toe of his shoe over the faded pattern before wrestling his words out for them to hear:

"I mean it more than… pretty much anything I've said to you in the last fifty years."

And that was going to be good enough for Veneziano, because the last person to enter the ring of nations was the one he found hardest to face. There was no mystery for him about why it was hard to look Germany in the eye, but so many things happening around him so quickly made it hard to move past those barriers. Years of enmity and distrust, such a long time spent not saying words that should have been used before everything had spiraled out of control… But really…

Really, so much of that was solely because Germany still looked like _him._

Only their voices were different, and that was why it took every fading shred of strength left in him as the bell-tower silenced itself for Veneziano not to look away and hide his face against either of his brothers. He wanted to just slump to the reclaimed ground and let his hands run over stones his founders had laid. The same stones saints and martyrs and fore-fathers and grandmothers had touched, everything that had built him up into what he was restored now for his children to experience freely…

He wanted his heart back more than he wanted Germany to try and address it. What made him keep his head up and back straight wasn't some long-forgotten hope of reconciliation, it was what Germany was holding in those wide, calloused hands as he took the final spot in the circle.

It was just a small, shy, bouquet of cornflowers peppered with white daisies to symbolize a friendship that no longer existed.

"Thank you." But Germany presented them with the last words Veneziano expected another living being to murmur in his presence: "Thank you for not letting his sacrifice be in vain."

He felt the lack of impact those words had on everyone else, because maybe they hadn't thought about it or maybe they didn't know, but Veneziano knew. He remembered.

"Is that all?" He knew the tears were still wet on his face, he could feel the itchy tingle of them sweeping down under his chin and dripping free of him, the tracks drying when he moved his head and created new paths for the tears to run down.

"No." Those blue eyes wouldn't look at him, but that suited Veneziano right now. It had taken him a long time to work up the courage to believe that if he looked properly at that face then he wouldn't find himself staring straight into the black, mirror-ball eyes of the Thing that had destroyed him. Watching Germany keep his eyes down now did not insult him, and it kept him from hiding. "Thank you for taking his place as North Italy, and for ensuring that everyone really did escape this time."

Germany's words brought a ripple through the ring around them. France turned and said something low and bitter under his breath, but it was Romano who tightened an arm around Veneziano and pulled both him and Seborga to stand closer. The hold did not hurt, and the wound those words could have inflamed had long ago transformed into a tough, unfeeling scar.

"As South Italy, I'll be the one to say what happened to my other half." Because although he rarely thought of it now, and even if it was something that almost never crossed his mind anymore, their world was one where two North Italies had existed. Veneziano was one had hidden and waited for the other him to die, but after so much pain and hard-work, the line between them barely existed anymore.

Venice had died the same way he had.

And now it was reborn, the same way he was.

"It's okay." So he spoke quietly to his brother and twisted his arm back and around until he could place one hand on Romano's shoulder, their arms almost linked and his other hand full from the gifts he'd been given. Romano did not break eye-contact with Germany. "Lovino, I know what he's saying: it's okay."

"It's not-"

"I want to sit down."

France sounded like he was saying something similar to Germany across the circle, but when Veneziano made his request Romano gave him a grumpy, frustrated look with his teeth clenched and eyes storming.

"You're full of shit." He accused.

"I still want to sit in my piazza." And Veneziano smiled, watching as much as feeling the small jolt that moved through his brother when the expression didn't feel forced or false on his face. Just the way the words came out, a sweet taste rolling off his tongue: _'my piazza'_.

Which was why his brothers let go of him and took the burden of his gifts, freeing up his hands as the voices fell away because the others saw him moving. They were watching him, but that was okay: he could handle their attention right now because his was focused on what was around him. A deep breath of sea wind, the cold rasp of carved stone under his hands, his eyes travelling up along the revived faces of stone angels and heroes erected around his square. His heroes. His martyrs… His…

"The bench is this…" Romano didn't finish calling him, no one tried to stop him, he saw them and he moved in that direction, ready to cross the entire stone square if that would bring him faster to what he wanted.

The reconstruction was not perfect. The Piazza was not _exactly as it had been_ and this was one of the changes. Instead of standing high atop a Byzantium pillar to the south of the actual Piazza, the monument he reached for now had been graciously placed atop a high, polished block of white marble. The bronze had gone green with age, and years underwater should have corroded it even more.

Without even touching the Lion of Venice, Veneziano knew the statue had been altered, reinforced, and restored to the solid beast it was now.

His Lion was in a state of perpetually resting its weight back as if about to pounce, head aloft and looking across the city with folded wings raised off its shoulders. Its face was not beautiful and its corroded eyes held no joy or anger, they merely looked and they watched while the creature kept both paws planted heavily on a bronze book open in front of it. The book was learning and knowledge and history, it was wisdom and finance, culture and creativity.

The Lion itself was strength, vigilance, and grace. Majesty and power wielded naturally and responsibly, without awaiting or responding to emotional triggers of pain, fear, or anger…

He could barely reach up high enough with one hand on the marble and the other extended up to reach the lion's mane. Without climbing up on top of it he knew he wouldn't be able to reach the face. But he tried.

_He tried…_

"Signore?" And it wasn't another nation who stopped him or tugged on his coat like that, but a small voice that startled him and made him look down again, lowering his arms and taking his weight off his toes. A child, and one of his with caramel-brown hair in ringlets shaking over a round face. A small child, one too small to know politics or leadership, but still old enough to know the Lion and smart enough not to climb up on his own.

But with a smile like that and grasping hands, curious and unafraid and drawn to a stranger with dry tears on his face and so many strange foreign men watching…

That round little body was soft and warm under a plastic blue windbreaker, short arms staying up so he could wrap his much larger hands around sturdy ribs and lift with his legs so tiny feet left the reclaimed ground. A trill of laughter through the bright winter sunshine and red boots touched polished marble, hands with wool mittens hanging from the sleeves reaching up to feel and grasp at green ripples cast in metal. He kept one guiding hand on the child's leg to stop him from trying to reach up and climb too high on the lion's back, only to look down in surprise when something else warm and laughing collided with the back of his legs and made him stumble against the side of the block.

"My turn!" It was a little girl with braided pig-tails, only a little taller and older than the boy who was already behind him. Her arms were around his legs until he nodded, not sure where his voice had gone before picking her up like he had the first child. Because she was taller, he braced her against his chest and felt her legs around him, running shoes digging in to find his waist and keep her up while she hugged him tight over his shoulder and neck. Carefully pushing and placing her up on the Lion's pedestal brought the toddling boy over again, and with an unexpected squeal the child jumped at him and had to be caught before he could get hurt.

"It's big!" It was big, and he'd almost stopped Veneziano's heart by leaping like that. "Dirty! See? See it's-" But the small, copper-crusted fingers that shoved their way into his face made him snort with laughter and try to turn his head away, one hand under the boy's rump and the other quickly tangling with soft, tiny fingers to clean away the flakes of grime and sand. When little arms locked around his neck he held his breath for a moment, surprised and unsure until more cheerful babbling reached him and-

"_Mama, look!_" and a shrill yell straight in his ear made him close one eye and tilt his head again, biting his lip as another breathless little rush of air left his chest.

"Catch me!" Oh no-

One arm was already busy holding the little toddler, so when the six-year-old threw herself at him Veneziano caught her on his other elbow, stumbling trying to soften the collision before dropping to one knee with both children. He heard laughter and that meant no one was hurt or upset, but before he could set them down on the ground he felt another pair of arms join the set already hugging tight around his throat.

"Alright, very good…" And he wasn't used to it, murmuring his words in Italian as close hugs brought soft skin against his. One of them asked to be lifted and spun around, the other wanted to jump again, they both refused to let go so he had to wrap an arm around each child and make himself stand with the extra weight.

Maybe the others thought him strange for ignoring them, but he couldn't find it in him to care. China and Russia would keep anyone from creating a scene in his city, Romano would let them know if they acted in a way that would make them unwelcome. If they wanted to prove how much they suddenly respected him, then they would let Veneziano do as he pleased.

And if it pleased him to hug two of his children tight and then set them down on the stones when a soccer ball brushed against his ankle,

And if it pleased him to set his toe against that rubber toy and knock it rolling over to the three small boys who owned it,

And if it pleased him to be approached by parents, and called after by children, and asked to shake hands with visitors, and knowingly listen as veterans of his revolutions came forward…

If it pleased North Italy to be himself again, the way he hadn't in so many years, even the years before he'd woken up in Rome again. If North Italy wanted to try and be that person who had once foolishly wandered off into the Swiss Alps without a second thought for what was happening…

Then he would.

Because every loop really happened, and everything that happened was really real, and this loop was not a perfect loop because there was no such thing as a perfect world or a perfect life.

But it was his world.

And it was his life.

And it was happy.

_**Fin.**_

_**Roll Credits**_

**Title:HetaOni: Recovery**

**Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family**

**Main Characters: North Italy, South Italy.**

**Chapters: 40**

**Word Count: Pending.**

**Page Count: Pending.**

**OST: Pending.**

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Gracious thanks to all of my reviewers over the past year, you guys have been wonderful and every comment, long or short, along the way has helped me push through to this moment. Thank you.

Special thank-yous to all of my tumblr friends and followers, because without your support this never would have moved past the twenty-fifth chapter. Hell, it probably wouldn't have moved past the 13th.

Thank you, thank you, thank you again to Pochiownsakitchen, Sophiaphilemon and Wilsontoyourhouse for possibly having the greatest impact on me to get this done. Thank you guys, you don't know what your silly comments and constant presence mean to me.

One more thank you for Sophiaphilemon, Blue Wallpaper and Thiszcat for beta-reading sections of this mammoth chapter right here. Without you three this would have easily taken another month to proof-read and edit.

* * *

_**Thank you.**_


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